Boatmen ferry us across
The river of the dead,
The dark stagnant river
Where our childhood dreams
Struggled and then sank
Into the hopeless mire
Of defeat.
There are no positive,
Sterling thoughts,
Only the rusted meditations
Of suicide recitations;
Ideas of masochistic violence
And self-deprecation
Mask as inspiration.
When the sun is fading
To every possibility of love,
When the curtain is being drawn
On poetry and creation,
When I’ve lost the desire
To fuel imagination,
Then I can’t escape the razor
Of spiritual emasculation.
Uriah Hamilton
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spiritual-emasculation/
