Battle Field Baptism (classic)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wN-NIHbfJ1k
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Battle Field Baptism
Current mood: awake
Category: bleakness of suffering. cold romance Writing and Poetry
Thousands Lay stricken, stirring in moments that stretch far beyond the lifes memory.
Thousands lay beaten, fallen apon a blood thirsty battle field. Hewn apon heaps, layed carelessly. Times slow beat in painful breaths. The recounting of the found memories of life for some. For others its the epitome of being left in a dumpster as a child. Motherless in a time where no amount of comfort can soothe the blood and pain of the last few breaths. The bleakness of the crys for mercy ringing in your ears as the last bouts of pain, tears and sheer will hold on for what ever time the hands can grip.
The crys in the thousands, pools of blood bathe comrades in baptisms that shed meaning into a new birth that some wish they never where born. Being born again apon a bloody battlefield, dying for a cause that held so much meaning. To others the ideal , the money, the promises all empty, the contracts now sealed the debt never paid.
To lay wasted and wasting, breathless and waiting, counting every last second, measuring every last moment.
The mother no-where to be found, the hour grows dark, thousands lay strewn and helpless with no mercy for the deep dark and blackening pain. Every moment of childhood counted before the last moments of the eternal eye. If one is lucky enough but unfortunate to suffer so obliquely. For every burning second of time throws contradiction to the struggle. The right to live for another agonizing second.
The child lays in its dumpster abandoned by its mother. Helpless now it crys, helpless and alone is its life. Its only a matter of time the thousands that lay wasted by that war will soon feel no more.
No more.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Battle Field Baptism
Current mood: awake
Category: bleakness of suffering. cold romance Writing and Poetry
Thousands Lay stricken, stirring in moments that stretch far beyond the lifes memory.
Thousands lay beaten, fallen apon a blood thirsty battle field. Hewn apon heaps, layed carelessly. Times slow beat in painful breaths. The recounting of the found memories of life for some. For others its the epitome of being left in a dumpster as a child. Motherless in a time where no amount of comfort can soothe the blood and pain of the last few breaths. The bleakness of the crys for mercy ringing in your ears as the last bouts of pain, tears and sheer will hold on for what ever time the hands can grip.
The crys in the thousands, pools of blood bathe comrades in baptisms that shed meaning into a new birth that some wish they never where born. Being born again apon a bloody battlefield, dying for a cause that held so much meaning. To others the ideal , the money, the promises all empty, the contracts now sealed the debt never paid.
To lay wasted and wasting, breathless and waiting, counting every last second, measuring every last moment.
The mother no-where to be found, the hour grows dark, thousands lay strewn and helpless with no mercy for the deep dark and blackening pain. Every moment of childhood counted before the last moments of the eternal eye. If one is lucky enough but unfortunate to suffer so obliquely. For every burning second of time throws contradiction to the struggle. The right to live for another agonizing second.
The child lays in its dumpster abandoned by its mother. Helpless now it crys, helpless and alone is its life. Its only a matter of time the thousands that lay wasted by that war will soon feel no more.
No more.
Labels: death, hopeless, motherless, war
posted by Andrew J Bishop at 7:20 PM
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