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To the worms

Jeremy1012Jeremy1012 Posts: 7,170
edited December 2006 in Poetry, Prose, Music & Art
I feel sick,
and not a little tired.
One hundred years
'til I find my cure.
Yearning to make that connection
to the sullen, divine blanket
of night.
We drift, directionless,
under luminous sky,
like Mohammedan angels,
heavenly but not unselfish,
dreaming of a reason - a raison d'etre,
perhaps a muse to focus my attention
so that the cut is painless.
Sedation breeds rebirth in death...
or at least I pray that it is so.
"I remember one night at Muzdalifa with nothing but the sky overhead, I lay awake amid sleeping Muslim brothers and I learned that pilgrims from every land — every colour, and class, and rank; high officials and the beggar alike — all snored in the same language"
Post edited by Unknown User on

Comments

  • Jeremy1012Jeremy1012 Posts: 7,170
    ps, a friend suggested upon reading this that I was secretly religious. being strongly opposed to any form of organised religion, I'd like to point out that any religious overtones or imagery in this poem are not a sign that I am religious in anyway. It is more an indictment of people who live their lives for the paradise that they feel they have been promised after death if they live according to religion.

    just so I'm not misunderstood... :) draw your own conclusions
    "I remember one night at Muzdalifa with nothing but the sky overhead, I lay awake amid sleeping Muslim brothers and I learned that pilgrims from every land — every colour, and class, and rank; high officials and the beggar alike — all snored in the same language"
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