By John O’Rourke.
Two pairs of gloves
Idiot strings broke like their hope
Adorn the wood of unmarked graves
Memories chastised out of recollection
Guilt feeding on misplaced trust
A vomiting birth of retribution
And the hate at the thought of a warm touch on pin pricked skin
Instead of trust that precludes all embraces
Torn like the Hyman of a child
Who's death comes long before dying
And the monster rarely roars to frighten
But passes amongst the quiet folk
No disguise better than silence
And in all the ugly facets of the despised and clearly broken
In pain we do not shudder we grow angry and despising
It's empathy that slays our heart
The sharing of emotion
We fear and can identify
But what truly leaves us hopeless
Is that the monster isn't alien.
I have a B.A. in Video in Film Production
I currently work as a Tech Support Agent for a Large Video Game Company.
I live in Dublin, Ireland.
I have never been published.