I Write Poetry

It is only the sound of laughter from the unforgiven.

They sing their prayers.

Tattered words upon the wind.

Forlorn and pent, silent in its admonition.

For we the unclean lean ideally against these cages of psychosomatic oppression.

Chained to our electric Gods, wonder spent, unworthy yet deserving.

And yet,

A thief is light for it steals the darkness.