‘Wayward Lament’

Arknero

Nothing prepares you for truth’s lasting abuse…
All the lies through reasons meet to create an excuse,
For being led on while you give yourself to someone else,
Now it’s gone and all you are left with is yourself.

Closing all paths to chasten the lies,
Thread the lore and spin my grief
Drive to end with my consent…
But did your lies set us free?

I knew the time and place you turned,
Your eyes grew sore your loins burned,
To seal your thought with every reason,
And justify a sacred treason.

Though my faith and trust grew dull
You never felt the need to say;
“I trust in you I am your soul,
So live in mine till life will hold”.

Instead for months you cut a maze,
And at its mouth you forged a way,
I found the secret to my pain with what you put inside,

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Autumnal Majesty

Pry upon their death wish

My esteemed insolence

Destruction of their bloodlines

Smoothness of my majesty

Wave upon wave of dimensional insanity

Creature of a booming humanity

Runs around the autumn tree

Whistling his life time away

Come upon spring’s misery

Where they call all day long

But the answer remains the same

Don’t come near us again

Rising from the grave

Is the angel of dismay

Neither to cry nor to slay

But to feed on the laughter of insects

Just a Dogmatic Fib

Life has no origin

History classifies it

The painter holding a brush

Not knowing what to paint next

If only the human mind understood

The relative structure of life

Alas! It’s known only

To the brush of the painter itself

Withhold the lies of the preacher

Withhold the lies of the intellectual

Withhold the lies of the initiated

Till ‘the lie’ becomes a manufactured feeling

Efficiency is a creature of misfortune

Whether it be fascism, communism or capitalism

Simply gather the references

Just go to school kids

Withhold the lies of of the banker

Withhold the lies of the salesman

Withhold the lies of the politician

Until ‘the lie’ becomes a manufactured feeling

The lie…the lie…the lie…the lie

Someone please tell ‘the lie’

Not to become my bitch

Just go and fuck itself

The Silence

Eternal silence – our keeper isolated

Entrenched in stillness of its own existence

Beyond expectations or sentient lies

All alone to our naked eyes

Carries the burden of reality

The reality – void of any certainty

The writer’s pen may run out of words

But the silence; it does not rescind its world

The keeper of space converges on itself

The silence consumes the keeper

For not a day, a month, a year

Is in measure of its term