In the silence, I traversed
the surging sea of wrath
and catch the daggers
of your detrimental waves
of treason, because
I’m too tired
to care
The fires assailed
in your secrets, they
send conflagrations to
the sanctuary of faith
but I lost my prayers
when I have steadfastly knelt before
the heavens and hells
and cried emergency,
but no garrison, no artillery
ever came
Because
we are the very hurt
that you sold,
the bruise that you don
to inveigle empathy,
the nickel tossed
for your ennui; and in
this prissy knot of charades
I grew cold as rock
standing above the grave
of empathy, in pride.
Norman Santos
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cold-as-a-tombstone/
