Once Upon the Darkness

                                                Once Upon the Darkness

 

 

 

            He didn’t ask,

Or warrant anything restrictive in

     His movement,

He only longed his freedom!

 

 

            But the constrictions of his mind

Placed jealously by the soulless

Who played him like toy;

Kept his manner – boy.

 

 

            He didn’t need arresting,

It had happened already when the dames

He had encountered found he,

A Man upon the age of three,

     Still,

All was void and infinite

In the dankness of the pantry

Where the Coal-Ghost growled

As beast.

 

 

            At least,

                        At least he found

The strength to scramble in the dark

For the toys he found himself among,

     His neck wrung,

     Sucking on his thumb as

Twirling on his locks,

He found their envy of his hair, dumb.

     He stifled his screams.

 

 

            He wondered if once again

He’d privy, be a witness to

Another light of day,

While in the cold the warmth

Of his buttocks vied with warmth

Of tears upon his cheeks.

 

 

            “Forgiveness?”

He screeched at forty years

As voices raged inside,

“forgiveness for persistence

Of genetics when we know

      It keeps a people cheap;

A schizophrenic illness

That claims the poorest generations

Stay at the mercy of the whip,

            Step within the confines

Of my clown shoes for just one day,

Just one day to hear the demons screaming,

See the flashbacks,

Take the raping nightmare and bear

A trillion years of making

For a nothingness that doesn’t

Make no sense,

            And know the Genius you are,

Know the truth of abused

And accused and then excuse

Yourself for pointing finger at me,

Just one day!”

 

 

            He never knew his intellect

And always shared his knowledge with

Compassion,

            Until his life was gone,

            And all around had laughed;

Not knowing the totality of their mistake –

A healer in their midst but,

                                    Too late,

                                                Too late,

                                                            Too late.

 

 

(He curls his hair while The Orb play

SpanishCastle’s in Space,

            Curls his hair and sucks his thumb,

Knowing all upon him;

            Full of hate,

                        Full of hate,

                                    Full of hate).

 

 

Michael J Waite – 1971 1972 1973 1974 1975 1976 1977 1978.

◄ Salt of The EARTH

Merry Christmas ►

Comments

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Francine

Tue 22nd Dec 2009 03:58

Intense torment expressed here Mike...
Not an easy read.

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