poem#9

Last of words

The smell is putrid.
One of rotten hopes and decaying marrow.

The damning voices, they do not cease.
All I have yearned for, a tiny piece of heaven;
Denied, rejected, shamed as if my dream the ugliest one of all.

Go ahead, you judges and kings of worlds,
Break my spine in two with rods of burning iron,
Dash my skull into pieces, like a potter’s vessel.
But You will not win.

To you who clawed free from hell, I hope you see heaven.

To you who wove yourself pride, may you wear it well.

To you who I loved most dearly, I wish you another love devoid of tragedy.

To all of you, all who shared with me a piece of your world, I thank you most earnestly for it.

If you come to wonder why I have done as I did,
Know that it was in wrath and pride that I disavow the living hope.