Friday, October 10, 2014

The Madness of Moats


Facing the void accepting the universe is not held within a thought
Analytical computations of what is and what shall be
Are brittle tools in awe of the moving parts of the realm
Every description just feels tainted with external control

Even though it is not intended it is in part wanted
By a mad man yelling at a wall claiming this is what he saw
Retorted over and again in the silence
This is not what was

Turning him into the black recognition that perception hath swathed his soul
What appeared to be real was apparition in the yield
Of a thousand bantered footsteps imagined upon a path
That never took place

A mind of journeys trekked into worn sandals of regret
So that when a man looks down upon his soles
He sees that they are bare, the calluses absent
The flesh pruning from indolence

The lethargy bangs his head an anvil chorus of his written sins
Collide in the hawkish silence
Convincing him he is both correct and insane, on pointe and profane
The argument swirls circular as the nothingness of faith and hope

Die screaming in a churning moat that what he wished will never be
And must accept that it also never was
Just a dominion of fantasy that the poppies were ever there to breathe
The siren song was ever sung to be heard

The illusion of the wanting in the guillotine of love
Rest thy head upon a pillow and give it all to end the sun
Showing the delinquency of imposing a mutual desire in the temple of the ancient
Gods and monsters dueling and the sound of every shield clanging

Was an echo from madness of fireside stories of history repeating
Surrender oh damn child, submit to thy crosspiece
There was no Odyssey here, only a lunatic praying to the dark side of moons

Hoping the voice in his heart was one other than his own

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