Struggling in the Silence

Welkin Siskin
Washington, USA

My bereft aura that bethinks me of my art is lost;
Where the cockles of my heart whispered and sounded off like the bravery of the Jesus’ Cross.
Where wits of my ignorance of conscience purl’d like the cascades;
Facing the horror of the grievous like the roots of the trees stretching its arm holding up the glades.

My bereft aura that bethinks me of my art is lost;
Where My childish knowledge cared for the undoing of the Earth, dawn to dusk;
Where my voice of silence brooked like the Jews enduring the ugly behest of Hitler;
Where the humanity set back in the cruelest lure;
Of the cult;of the dogma of brevity.

My bereft aura that bethinks me of my art is lost;
Where the Nile of dares of my insanity defended the burst;
Of the evening of the mobsters’ struggles.
Where the noble and the honest,the virteous and the upright lost their souls.