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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