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Back You are here: Home Stories Words for the People Poetry Flesh Made World
Sunday, 23 September 2012 19:13

Flesh Made World

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The Malevolent Maestro,
orders chords with His mask,
overwhelming my own tempo,

with blank-faced angelic voice
demanding breath, after all, I do,
not belong, not here, in a Heaven of,
song, a monotone brute without,
voice, singing songs of the heart
a mask hid the face of my piano killer,
sending me back to this flesh made world,
as a conduit, the gift of thought speak,
I hide in crowds of men, mediocre mortals
masked the same, I endure a life, that,
never amounts to anything more, than,
a passion, to use a voice I can’t speak,
another deaf ear using God’s Words.

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Last modified on Sunday, 23 September 2012 21:13
Laramore Black

Laramore Black is the editor and the founder of Slit Your Wrists! magazine. He writes poetry, fiction, and random articles throughout the internet. He likes Chinese food, Jameson, and sketchy people. Keep his upcoming debut novel Autophonomania in mind when you run low on toilet paper. You can stalk him on Facebook and Twitter.

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