Poem Of The Week: Sympathy For The Devil
PART ONE
Do you see that beautiful girl standing over
by that grave with her head in her hands and
the weight of the world on her shoulders?
Stare through her soul and know the
truth of her terrible life, the careless loss
that severed her mind in half.
Do you notice that tearstained face, the
perfect picture of an endless regret for
the happiness thrown away by casual words?
An unbreakable bond discarded, forgotten,
haunting her dreams until the passage of
light will fade from her eyes forever.
Do you search for the years of pain that
etched on her face hide the truth of the
sacrifices she made to retain the secrets?
Shattering shards tear through the
whispering declaration of broken feelings
that must never be shared again.
Do you see that beautiful girl standing over
by that grave with her head in her hands and
the weight of the world on her shoulders?
She’s always there and yet never present,
there will be no more chances for you.
PART TWO
She’s always standing there beneath the willow tree;
always unmoved by the onslaught of the weather and
the restless passage of time as everywhere else must
wither and crack until nothing is left.
She’s always standing and yet never another position;
her head in her hands standing over the grave of
the one who lays entombed at her grey cold feet with
ivy snaking around and crawling up top.
Look closely and you must see the carving of tears;
they’re etched deep inside below staring dead eyes
battered by the wind of centuries old and the eyelids
cracked and chipped and the erosion that shows its toil.
Ageless wings folded upright and over her back;
she weeps in her hands for the wondrous past that
can never return before the light of the day is faded;
the moment is plunged into the darkness eternal. (Page 1 of 2)
There is nothing left but sympathy for the devil;
his once proud reign brought low by the endless
river of rain falling like the tears of grief cleansing
the fiery depths of satan’s hellish domain.
Nothing can ever stand tall and proud again;
heads must bow in permanent mourn for
the days that they threw away and the
sympathy they ought not to have reaped.
Tobias O. G. Forrest 