Rimbaud

disreputable, mean, ruthless,
perverse, hateful, wretched;

this poetry,

this darkness;

a despicable cancer,

a reflection of their desire
and destruction,
greatness in the eyes of many;

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 tar soaked sawdust,
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 the light which eludes most.

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