#1
Noah, I know not of the pains you have been through.

The Architect

Good morning, my country
from the scattered remnants
of the death strip-
please, my intensions were of good.
The black mirror that disguises
our woven desires
till nothing ever comes of it.
Our evaporated nation
so morbid, we were left searching.
Only the wooden door was left behind
from the storm, and we scattered
to the interminable soil:
and I couldn’t proceed to close my eyes.

The spirits of the ornament
told me to gather, and gather well.
It told me to stand still
and not to say anything.
And I saw the crowds gather around the stairs,
beneath the drifting cemetery.
A hallelujah from the illiterate crowd
calling my name.
The sprawling children
and the communication;
singing praises, singing elegies
to conceal their vices.
But I do not understand
the longing voice
from the fellow craftsmen-
full of swagger and indecisions,
their breaths still.

You people, you just don’t know
which side you are on-
there’s no chance of survival.
But one has to be so careful;
the strange men have never learned
to tame their master.
Their tears were foaming
on beds of nails;
an ode to freedom.
Let us go then
with a frightened mind
beside the tunnel.
A year without light:
it was cold
and we were withering!

Courage yet, my brothers and sisters,
I know the tension that you speak of;
the native observation of timeless dreams.
I take the back road
to the viaducts where I hide
all of my insecurities, yes
there were plenty of complacency.
The meeting at the window sill
with the half-cut woman.
She reminds me, to stay out of trouble;
to stay out of fear:
“The fall isn’t coming here,
not today.”
Last edited by Bleed Away at Nov 14, 2009,
#2
This is a very careful narration, a sermon to those in your mind, an aside, a monologue designed to gratify your guilt. I think you're being too careful with your words, and maybe that's a collection of your intentions* of good. Concentrating a bit too hard on the adjective and phrase, wanting to make them sound important, with an unsteady voice that's loud, and proud in the pretend world of sermonology.

It jumps around a lot, I am he, let us go, you people, it was cold, I know Hemingway said to write simple sentences, people understand them better but I've learned very recently that he may not have had a clue what he was on about. But he probably wasn't wrong.

It doesn't keep me interested, doesn't rapture me, but I think I wanted it to, and that more than anything is why I kept reading.