One which spins its twisting veils of sincronicity, A world, where i am left, to forge my own cup full of tea.
A place wherein cannot be found, What is up, or right, or wrong, or down, And above, is below, and the sky, is ground.
And in this place of tangled mesh,
Shall rich be poor, and frozen fresh,
With most just left to wonder and guess.
See me in this place of abstract merth,
Where mothers die and babe's give berth,
And willows tread upon the earth.
Entreat me to this world that i may see,
A world upset in mediocrity,
A world, where i am left, to forge my own cup full of tea.
Lost words in a hallowed place.
Reslolute endevours as hackneyed as the morn,
Forgotten escapades where holy pacts are sworn.
Losing time on a company pace,
This insatiable monster has lost his face.
Scared as love is of the truth, Mr. Sadist, incomprable sleuth.
Losing life the battle of?
Indecision. Perhaps a shove?
Or make a wish upon the stars?
What futile act do you demand of me?
What peice of my heart would you care to eat?
Why not fire a bullet into the moon?
Or the Sun?
Or any other fucking star you choose?
Why don't i rip off my prostetic leg?
And smash down the gates of hell for you?
You're welcome there you know.
With a long drawn sip i try to forget my day of torment ahead.
As some fashion of recluse, and with palpatating eyes,
i peer through the withering window shutter.
I see your beauty shining down through the fine brown brances of the holy tree.
Setting off a string of wonders as your luminescence glows with each so soft caress.
The birs setting off to flight
In their loopy, lofty,
Circles of meriment.
While in the distance
The children shriek with delight
To the sound of the brook
Bubbling over its embankment.
With torment forgotten,
I,
Stumble deftly to my sanctuary,
My fortress of sleep.
Frothing at mouth and lost in coy smiles.
Throats all hoarse and tongues des'rt dry,
While shapes with mangled edges lie,
In skewed demeanor and irreverant i.
What origins of these oracles be?
That transform word and parts of speech,
And bask in throngs of luxury?
What happened to a tempered knee?
And what of their mediocrity?
Where lives the house they speculate?
This land of harp and 'thedrals great,
A place of love and recreate.
Only for those still shy of eight?
I fear such news has come to late.
What do these men of knowledge do?
To take a faith and to eschew,
All the rest as if no clue.
What has become of those so few,
Who took the rock and made it food?
Why do they preach from pulpit side?
When all they propigate are lies,
Who among us will not die?
Where comes this rush to pacify?
What fear is this, that leaves us tied?
Be buried in our yards and lost to moles?
By secured ends this man lethargic be?
Or an indescernable source, lost in modesty?
This man wil know, and love, and war,
But to what end is this but terrible bore?
He lives and loves and prophecies
And yet his life is weighted die.
I feel for this man, most certainly do,
Empathy is zenith, when one doth don his shoe.
When one has not the means to let it in?
When tails of days not wrought are told,
How could there be but no one bold.
Is one to blame when life futile,
Vivisects and makes senile?
Who can live when powers fate,
Make week men strong and sedate great?
Maybe trod or plod or queue,
Or those like me, who do eschew.
But live a word to overused be,
I call it hell, at least to me
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