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The true nightmare begins

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  • Papa
    The true nightmare begins by George Papa G. Papathepoet@houston.rr.com Twas in the spring when death s breath blew me a nightmare of metaphors and symbolic
    Message 1 of 1 , May 18, 2004
      The true nightmare begins

      by George "Papa" G.


      Twas in the spring when death's breath blew me a nightmare of metaphors and symbolic things. Truth rang as a King in leather black sang an ode of dire desires to die and fly away; an aria to deny and defy the pain where the soul resides. Whether asleep or insane, I cry for shames as old as time. A higher prayer written in prose and rhyme of the feast in the East to Gods unseen. I pen what must be said. My life exposed and read by cyber folks I will never know.

      His eyes cried dry, the deceased priest of selfish hate, he begged to be forgiven, as the choir of his victims bled red across the cell of their taken youth. My tears shed, nothing but wasted water, ally themselves with rage and pain as they flood and mix with the innocent blood upon hells floor. Quoting Poe and nothing more, I turned away. For either of us, "Peace nevermore."

      Within my deformed heart blooms a rose of fire that requires me to release the beasts that fights for control of my soul. Vampire and wolf. Dragon and butterfly. Wings and fangs. Feathers and fur. Images of my dead spirit, begging to be reborn. Lost lessons screaming to be heard. Karma laughs at the skyclad rites and unlived life.

      On the level and squared the choices mine to make, such is fate. A chance to dance missed by chosen lies, as ages slide by. To grow I must glow and forgive. Why? How? When? Soaked with sweat the dark cuddles close, as I realize I am again alone with my tears and sins.

      Now, awakened the true nightmare begins.

      Papa G. © Tuesday, May 18, 2004

      George "Papa" G.


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