Rimbaud

Disreputable, mean, ruthless;
perverse, hateful, wretched;
this poetry,
this darkness;
greatness in the eyes of many,
a despicable cancer,
a reflection of their desire
and destruction;

all they know.

If it were mine to give,
there would be no more darkness,
no more empty promises,
no more dead ends;
childish fantasies,
put away forever,
swallowed up
by innocent yesterdays
and intellectual tomorrows.

These vanishing dreams disappear,
washed away by burning
acidic screams,
inside this land of shadowy perpetrators,
lost within cold, black tombs
of liquid, crystal night.

Somewhere beyond this edge
the horizon lies,
buried inside soulless caverns
where only fools and dead men live,
old memories rise,
tasting like sawdust soaked
in tar,
a glimpse into depths
they can only imagine,
a touch beyond
everything they know,
titillating, exciting,
spending all they have,
only a word away,
darkness is not hard to find;

it is light that eludes most.
.
.