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