Cesspool Called History

i am an island in the cesspool called history
i inhabit the crippled remains of a place that once was
suffocating in a solitude so fulfilling
that the nearest rendez-vous becomes a crucifixion
my solitude is more chaotic than were
a stoic remains undaunted among the ruins of a world
shattered into atoms
some of us are born weary of being born
were given the gift of life to live obsessed with death
we bury on our souls the corpses we have not yet murdered
like an angel drafted onto the back of a leper
a criminal saint
the hero of yesterday becomes the tyrant of tomorrow
unless he crucifies himself today
the restlessness of sleepless nights digs trenches
where the corpses of memory lay rotting
a creator of lucidity whispers
time, time that slaughterhouse of the universe
is it not in the nature of a man who cannot kill himself
to seek revenge against whatever enjoys existing