Eleven
Eleven minds are my prisons of enslavement
under thickened layers
suffocating
my churning nightmare
doth seared a bloody trench
blistered misery
from eleven minds
an excretion of truth
unremembered by forgotten voids
of empty nowheres
Eleven eyes stare back from shards of broken mirrors
burning to ashes in my crypt of shattered minds
I cry storms of blood from my eyes I see
a grave of memories in which I sleep
forever undisturbed
my dreams unborn. . .
reflections unfold as forgotten
days of a future looked back on
by eleven minds
Words unwritten by eleven hands remain unread
by eyeless heads thirsting for waters untasted
a core of rage boils in veins of eleven demons
feeding my secret vacuum
smothering inside itself
I live eleven dreams of emerald sunrays
blistering the pale skins of my windowless soul’s
imprisoned misery
I wear eleven masks of deception
each its own opposite
an unseen entity forgotten by a
wind that never blew
thy cold wet infant
motherless
so alone
I died in wicked fires
to relive eleven lives
eleven times
in between before and after
By Robert Revell
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[...] but not least, I wrote an extremely strange poem entitled Eleven last year which is indicative of my peculiar style of writing. It falls under the [...]