Torn Classic

This man of stone

Three Wars and 73 years later I retired.






In his gray tired manner
He sets his mind to rest
An appalled figure of arrest
Aptitude of the common rest

He is the all that has its place
To gutters mansions or placid place
He plays right off the oppressed
The common day and no less

He caps the meaning of dire love
Cast it away, bloody feathers from above
A thousand lies changed his mind
Yet all, yet none told of the find

It’s his way to distress the pigs
To play their wit and pull their wigs
But he cries at nights above alone
He cries at night alone, alone
He cries at night this man of stone

The world of cuts is his to bare
A constant load of despair
It is his way to pave the way
Through until he has to pray
In his mind reigns the terror
The lock cold horror of Terra
An imagined past too wide for word
A coughed-up word that no one heard

A javelin cast unto the sky
Could not pierce his living lie
For it is he and his kind
That tell of a past in man’s mind

He is the condemned mind. Sol
He is now the condemner of his all
A farewell word is his to say
A quickened leave is his way

© Poetry.com