The river of puddles creep towards the side of the street and leaves
a residue of demolition and extradition on the streets of now,
today,
tomorrow,
the dropp will fall into the settling water and breed
ripples,
that run across
skimming the very top
reaching outward to unwilling souls
licking the dark deep caves within us that
is
the result of what we all fear
is
the creation of tension in our ashened suspension
is
the death of innocence
the rebirth of pain
anguish
sickeningly hungry for hope
dying to taste the forehead of luck
dying to kiss the hand of god
and
see
have
seen
heaven
but he bit the apple and brought upon
heaven which attempts to exist in the minds of
hell
in
hell there is
no existence
no smile
a grin
not a laugh
a cackle
not a dream
but a dream deferred
a nightmare of sorts
a death of sorts
a rebirth
of
what I like to call realization's
pension
destroyed
deployed
destructive days of our time
in which I cannot smile.
I can't laugh
I can't dream.
Can you.
Yazzy Nixon
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/puddle-of-the-dead/
