Thursday, July 14, 2011

The Blooming Portrait

O my face
If this is it
Than be it so

In the land of ages
Where skin is trade
Slaves pray naked on bed
I stand to the metaphor-
To be called a maid
I belong
Not made!

Call me a master’s piece
And I’ll sprinkle water on your eyes
To rain the thickness of the subjects
And be decomposed by scavengers.

The red blood in the whiteness of my breast
Is a beautiful truth of my existence.

History texts, “Humans replicate living,
Beings hail supremacy”
Ahh! My blood has poured an egg of vengeance.
He who shall be called: The Apocalypse
Will claim the beautiful form of existence with no mercy.

I, The Apocal
Your noble ruler,
Hereby born to eclipse lives.

Master, master, the humans cry.
We human race,
We poor race,
Can we selfish creatures,
 Be your taste.

I hate your origin
You dirty flesh.

(and there the apocalypse ate one and all
and remained with the unremains until his fall,
age got him on the web of death
and there the grass surged from his bed.)

Existence charmed…
And now it seemed
Will be equally made.


Anonymous said...

To wish you were someone else is to waste the person you are!
be yourself...and love to be urself...
very few can stand without a mask,and the who do are the happiest...acc to me!

Anonymous said...

I am afraid to show you who I really am, because if I show you who I really am, you might not like it--and that's all I got...
m proud of you as you showed yourself as you r in the MIRROR!