Torn and Sickled

Stop!
Do not shout,
do not scream your thousand furies
of hate and torment.
His aphonic nature cannot
hold much more.

But where will the wretched lie?

Not in the stark naked bosom
which looks to veil
the violets that shrivel
and die.
It is a cemetery,
a land filled with tombs
and musket fire.

     – Do not be tempted to judge
        with your ill-willed verbosity.
     – You, mother,
        are a morose giant of extinction.

However stern,
his chained back
will crackle and turn
towards Hades.

Torn and sickled,
he is a creature,
a monster in exile,
a figure for the downtrodden.
Damned by the father,
cursed by the mother,
he is drifting on a black river
violently flowing
to the awesome end
of breath.