Rimbaud

disreputable, mean, ruthless, perverse,
hateful, wretched, this poetry,
this darkness;

a despicable cancer, reflections of 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 light that eludes most.

.

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