03 September 2012

21. yea, though it walks (j sonnet)

a tribe of the quiet land
once had a rite of passage

the aspirant was buried alive
where no light could find him

where no ear could hear his sobs
this was the final rite

after a span of days
he was numbered among the wise

darkness is a knife that peels away
what you think you know about yourself

the shades of your pretenses
the tones of your illusions

  darkness hides everything
  except who you really are

No comments: