I saw a holy blade,
Glistening in the dusk,
Sacred howls swirling through the open window,
Souls erupting into flame,
The cast iron suit of identity tightening,
As the noose slips,
And junk ridden eyes,
Whispering solemn and suicidal thoughts,
Haunt the beat old bars where lovers meet,
Strangers fall into the depths of lust and loss,
Despair seeping through their veins like waves,
Tremors colliding in the form of angelic shivers,
And preachers groan,
Drowning in the blood of ghosts they sought to save,
And the lost come to find their kin,
And drown their sorrows together,
In the holy matrimony of sympathetic sinners and anaemic saints,
Unified in their being,
All created from the dirt,
All writhing in the cold night,
Yearning for lies of freedom,
And sermons of death,
Crying out only to be heard,
To be held,
To be loved,
As they cripple under the weight of the world,
Entombed in the barren wilderness of thought,
Their morbid souls illuminated and crucified,
Within the swirls of nightmare chemical concoctions,
Alone in the shadow filled echo chambers of their haunted minds,
They howl,
Never to be heard,
Never to be held,
Never to be loved,
Ever to yearn –
Poem by Stamos Mardou