the footsteps of the fallen

of all the poems i have penned in recent days, this has been one of my favorites. not to say this states anything about the aptitude of my poetic ability or even the quality of the piece itself, but there are moments the mask slips and the inner self bleeds through in all its insecurity. poetry has a way of doing that. it exposes self to the outside, bringing the subconscious to the light.

the curse of being immortal often forces one to muse upon the separation that exists between creature and creator. one wonders if there is such a thing as too fallen from grace. especially when they often have blood on their hands, both literally and figuratively.

i shall share more work centered around the macabre one of these days, to offer an illustration of the temptations a vampire faces from day to day. for now, this is a bit more introspective, in a philosophical sense.

the footsteps of the fallen

looking for something
to cauterize the wounds,
i burned my fingers on the sun
reaching for the light contained therein
hoping it would sear away
the ever-present sense of self-loathe
that finds its way inside my shoes.

daily walks and listless pondering.
surveying my place under the stars
only to discover
i exist in some distant galaxy
far removed from sense and reason,
some other reality
far removed from the face of heaven.

the angels do not smile in my direction.
they hide their eyes and glance
toward the presence of someone
much more deserving of their attention.
meanwhile, the devils cast lots
for pieces of my soul

who will be the victor?

foolish demons, they do not know
when the final chips are
cast onto the pile,
nothing exists for them to purchase
with the blood of martyrs
i shed to make an offering
on the holy altar of self.

merely the burning flesh
and barren soul
of a man who was forsaken.
a man cast aside by the saints
in all their splendor
a very long time ago.

be well, dear friends
peter

~ by peterdawes on July 24, 2008.