I felt it slip though my fingers <br />It seared my skin yet I felt no pain <br />And, as it fell to the floor <br />I heard it groan like a wounded animal <br />When I looked down <br />I could not see it <br />Hear it <br />Taste it <br />Smell it <br />Love it or hate it <br />Yet I felt its breath on my neck <br />As it struggled to cling on to this lost soul <br />I used to believe <br />I used to believe in good and bad <br />I used to believe in greater things <br />I used to believe in lesser things <br />I used to believe in everything <br />But now <br />I've lost belief in belief itself <br />I saw burning on top of the world <br />I saw looting on the roof of the world <br />I saw clouds make shapes like angry hands <br />And I listen to the names on the list <br />As the roll call sighs <br />When it breathes out the names of the dead <br />There are others <br />There will be more <br />If death is a number <br />Then belief is a curse <br />Or worse <br /> <br />(c) David Stansfield 2008<br /><br />david stansfield<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-lama-s-not-for-riding/
