SETTING OF MY SACRIFICE By Jasen Sousa
SETTING OF MY SACRIFICE
Night is dim, my living future ghostly grim,
the probability of continuing on is impossibly slim, scenery steadily stark.
Setting of my sacrifice, skin sweating, blood morbidly like ice.
I wanted to see what it was like, the last days of my life spent in dark,
my persistent perception to be peremptory,
the final thought from my mind, the final period placed at the end of my story.
Sky flashes lightning, soul and spirit clash as I am writing,
skin covered with gashes, breathing in air filled with ashes, uttering my last words.
Blood dripping, no more love, nothing uplifting,
to this oracle, only one event left which inevitably occurs.
Vision blurs, sentences filled with slurs, thoughts of tranquility,
arranged with aberrant ability, a setting of me killing me.
The world never accepted me, rejected me.
Morticians inject me and vultures dissect me, protect me, no one ever tried.
Into my casket I snuggle and settle, don’t let go of my legendary librettos.
Setting of my sacrifice, staged bright lights as I die,
the future of my heart when they find what’s inside, mouths open wide.
A stake through my hand, pen falls into sand,
a crown adorned with thorns, bullets and blades rest on my head.
Setting of my sacrifice, all life is dead.
Blood dripping from my pours, life is ignored.
Spirit leaves my body, takes to the sky and soars.
Blood spills as I’m dragged up a hill and laid on top the mountain’s peak,
brutally beaten, I hear them speaking as I experience a myriad of blows.
These prejudice people who are not aware of my secret sequel,
a gallant effort to make sure my greatness never grows.
On a paper cross, my thoughts are nailed,
in anticipation, they wait for my damnation, look, my wounds have healed.
For six days I waited patiently in my other worldly vacancy,
all those who break me, you are forgiven.
Treasure never stays buried forever,
thought I was dead, but I never stopped living.
Setting of my sacrifice, day of my demise,
after reading the seventh stanza, I will once again rise.
Taken From
Almost Forever By Jasen Sousa (Written between age 22 and 23)
©
Night is dim, my living future ghostly grim,
the probability of continuing on is impossibly slim, scenery steadily stark.
Setting of my sacrifice, skin sweating, blood morbidly like ice.
I wanted to see what it was like, the last days of my life spent in dark,
my persistent perception to be peremptory,
the final thought from my mind, the final period placed at the end of my story.
Sky flashes lightning, soul and spirit clash as I am writing,
skin covered with gashes, breathing in air filled with ashes, uttering my last words.
Blood dripping, no more love, nothing uplifting,
to this oracle, only one event left which inevitably occurs.
Vision blurs, sentences filled with slurs, thoughts of tranquility,
arranged with aberrant ability, a setting of me killing me.
The world never accepted me, rejected me.
Morticians inject me and vultures dissect me, protect me, no one ever tried.
Into my casket I snuggle and settle, don’t let go of my legendary librettos.
Setting of my sacrifice, staged bright lights as I die,
the future of my heart when they find what’s inside, mouths open wide.
A stake through my hand, pen falls into sand,
a crown adorned with thorns, bullets and blades rest on my head.
Setting of my sacrifice, all life is dead.
Blood dripping from my pours, life is ignored.
Spirit leaves my body, takes to the sky and soars.
Blood spills as I’m dragged up a hill and laid on top the mountain’s peak,
brutally beaten, I hear them speaking as I experience a myriad of blows.
These prejudice people who are not aware of my secret sequel,
a gallant effort to make sure my greatness never grows.
On a paper cross, my thoughts are nailed,
in anticipation, they wait for my damnation, look, my wounds have healed.
For six days I waited patiently in my other worldly vacancy,
all those who break me, you are forgiven.
Treasure never stays buried forever,
thought I was dead, but I never stopped living.
Setting of my sacrifice, day of my demise,
after reading the seventh stanza, I will once again rise.
Taken From
Almost Forever By Jasen Sousa (Written between age 22 and 23)
©