The Bones of Poems.

My world has become a crematorium as my old self    
enters the fire.    
My soul is fleeing this graveyard of rotting flesh desire.    
My stone heart mourns the existence of innocence before.    
But those days vanished along the darkened dusty road of time and are mine to call no more!    
The faces of the past    
who placed their dreams and wishes in me,  
must now know all is lost in what cannot last and cannot be.    
It is cruel to sell sweet stories    
to the babes of war and sin    
Who dream dreams beyond reach then fade from bright to dim.    
The dead are liberated and the living are empty shell, souless ghosts!    
Most of them parasites suckling from their parasitic hosts.    
My words are toxic in exposing the poison of truth.  
The world we dreamed up once upon a time, is buried alongside dead faith...the corpse of youth. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!    
We dont want to become the bones of our poems  
nevertheless we must!