Friday, 20 January 2012

Bored. Wrote a poem.


I know your type, my quiet tall, dark stranger
I've met the men who always have to win.
I know that in the grand scale of ambition
For you 'to feel' bares the same bane as 'to sin'.
I know the shades you cast are cut to the perfection
And the thoughts you utter marvel in,
Statues could be made to stare at you
Marble, cut in awe of those who win.
The face may be a gem, may be a triumph,
The scent, the voice, the hair may be, the skin,
Like nothing ever so terribly created
Armor on the men who like to win.
The thoughts, the swords, the cars, the ships, the horses,
Matters all on just one side of a grin
On the other side are tiny honest secrets
Insignificance of hearts of men who win.
Just one touch from you and blood burns or stops flowing
A star might die if you sent your lust within
What are floods and earthquakes to ideas
Born by the men who always win.
To lose an argument would be to burn the world,
Nothing sheer of death on an entire nation would wear thin
The need to prove, the urge to harness logic
Bent, men who cannot stand, they shouldn’t win.
I know your kind; I know the beauty of your cruelty,
I recognize you think you have to win
I would follow you home, my only stranger
But even I can’t find where to begin.