Thursday, 26 May 2011

Mark of Cain

Mark of Cain

This field was plowed and sown with grief,
and marked with sentient hubris,
the cries of wanton years relief,
fell deaf upon this distress.
For in my pride and vaunted soul,
I slew each angels gift,
and offered up this cracked bells toll,
this hearts discordant rift.

Standing at the end of my dreams,
staring into a wasteland of emptiness,
every shattered hope is seems,
becomes a shroud of vacuousness.
No more road to walk upon,
just dust beneath these worn out shoes,
the tattered cloths of a worn out sun,
descend into this night of blues.

Dreams die... and so do I,
with every fading faltering step,
no more hope or moistened eye,
to keep these shattered bones I've kept.
They crumble, break, and fall to dust,
and find that they are not alone,
for in this parched and bloody trust,
a billion souls to hell have blown.

So do not walk upon this road,
you'll find that it has but one end,
to carry such a heavy load,
down into heartless death my friend.
Turn back towards the dawns first light,
or reap the scorn of loves disdain,
to find yourself in endless flight,
for you'll have worn the mark of Cain.

© Richard Michael Parker 2011

1 comment:

RMP said...

'Cain' by Fernand-Anne Piestre, housed in the Musée d'Orsay, Paris