The left overs of an underhandedness,
To redress, egress, and land--this,
This is the place and space, less,
Than what you thought or knew,
More than all that you could chew,
Masticating on some pontification; you,
Find that swallowing is the hardest,
For those who are soft, and lest,
You listen to the blessed:
You only comb the catacombs,
You yet address the undressed.
Pausing. . .
Pausing. . .
Pausing. . .
Only to ceaselessly,
And to greaselessly,
Slide into an oblivion,
Through a panopticon of haze,
Seeing by a gaze of nothing,
The phrase of all emptiness,
Is the sum of all your zeros.
All of your heroes have died,
Or lied, and tried and failed,
Nailed to their impressive frailty,
Paling before hoped for comparisons;
These garrisons of gargantuan proportion,
Are all the more, no less a distortion,
A contortion of reality, you cannot see,
Reality is the stark, bleak, staring,
Reality is the dark, sleek, daring,
Reality is the last stroke--
You strike upon--
Upon yourself.
Is there less to be won?
Your striving is undone,
Yet. Yet? Yet!
You set the world,
(on nothing)
Spin the world,
(on nothing)
Turning, turning, turning,
Churning, churning, churning,
Burning, burning, burning,
Upon an axis,
(of nothing)
--Absolute--
Futility.
Vanity.
Striving after wind,
Without change, or stability,
Without strength; fragility,
Thy name is
a man,
a woman,
a childlessness,
Baron Barrenness.
I want you to know:
You will reap what you sow,
Every seed of thought does grow,
Into a yes, or into a no,
Into a stop, or into a go,
Into a high, or into a low,
Into a friend, or into a foe,
What will you show?
What will you show?
What will you show?
When all your cards,
So meticulously,
So ridiculously,
Arranged, deranged--fall--
face up,
On the table, of
On the scale, of
Justice,
With only your name,
Upon your lips to plead,
And your own blood,
Upon your life to bleed,
For every deed,
For every need.
Post a Comment