Bad Poetry No.2

A puerile plea,
into the void of the ages,
misundestood and misplaced,
identity left to fester,
maligned on the open seas.

Confused in the confusion,
lost in the dissolution,
words strung like christmas lights,
guides in the winter nights,
promising that stars will shoot across the sky
and lead us to hope.

Swimming against stranger tides,
sickness and health merge with time,
no normal place to hide when nothing,
is average anymore,
something striking behind each door,
that can strike you down or with the bolt of an idea.
a desperate snatch of Elysium.

Candles and clay lamps,
stories and sentiments hand in hand,
share the window in the cold and dark.
point of faith in something we are not.
that things get better with time,
only by the hands of the divine.

Wail like the wind on white sheets,
black ink spilling or typed into being,
a cry devoid of any sound,
still changing the world as it spins around.
Hologram humanity in the model solar system.
How are we in some perfect image,
if real humanitarians and saints,
 are more unsure than anything human words create?