|Dark Prayer |
by Gregory Wilde  /  poetry  /  2 Oct 2007
Every word is painful now,
The tooth rips and hits the ground,
A lawyer's giving you a plastic reward,
For making him richer
But you hear the sound,
In the back of your mind,
When the lights go dim,
The sun goes down,
All the way to the Garden.
All the way to the Garden,
Words become frail,
There is no point,
In writing of lost affairs,
Letters are just markers for the will,
Children cry into the night,
The sun hasn't come up,
For a thousand days and nights,
You can't see or hear the Garden door,
No one lives there anymore.
A god you saw in the fire's edge,
He once had a child
You now believe is dead:
A god is just a spirit in treason,
So there goes another of life's reasons.
Every word is painful now.
The tooth, it's ripped like before,
Blood bubbles beside the sand,
The life you lead is finally passed:
Do you see him in the Garden?
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