Is poetry a dead art
The wood is firmer by the day Oh Lord Bones supported once by flesh, but now bereft of meat Which cushioned the cold hardness of the board The tenderness compounds a feeling of deceipt My hands must press against my eyes To ease their ache, from smoke and light That burns them in my long waking cry And then efface them in the night Oh Dear God what has become of me That you should see fit to put me here This place that is hell on earth, and we Should have to starve and live in fear I can barely think to pray to you My head is blurred with pain And interrupted by thoughts through Which my mind cant help but be insane I know you can see what they do In the madness of their cruel pitiless Killing and torture we know their true Intent to murder us, or meanwhile leave our minds a mess Must I move the bodies of my friends Forever from the theatres of the dead To burn in hell, the sky their blackened end Then on my knees to scour their floors of red Oh God why, why me and these here with me H
