Wednesday, April 25, 2012

a world of dead saints

there are figures behind the form,
of whom are promises,
made of glass
,equally fragile,
i hear the shatter,
upon the rocks of ignorance,
into smithereens of arrogance!
that blind me and all of us,
its a world of dead saints.

a people yearning to be led,
like sheep hear them bleat,
not to shepherds,
oh no!
its to to the butcher.
hear them wail,in regret.
awash in their blood;
yet i hope its a lesson learn t,
of a world of dead saints.

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