In the creative, we turn static.
Finding only vestures of control.
Mind’s warped along a parallel
they themselves delve too deep
to understand.
Another lost mentor making
mansions from the skin he’s
shed.
Opaque is the clutter laid
upon eyes. Distant preconceived
notions are all they’ll see.

Call me eternity,
call me discrepancy,
call me irony…
Calling out to a void filled
by insecurities ravaging
idea.
Turn my new leaf over,
find disease lacing its way
throughout the biology,
consumed by complacency.
Eternity lost to travesty, ever
since function made our juncture
fit our self indulged wit,
we now beset you with. Ask nothing
before posturing confidence.
For we’re all becoming illogical
conclusions formed by our
miseducation.

An hour of terror is a lifetime
of doubt. Causeways make so
much sense, empty vehicles
moving along without consequence,
without regret.
Coddling to a master;
makes for one more nipple to
blister.
Stanzas bathed in blood,
a muddied history lost to our
senseless oligarchy. Find a
word worth saying, find a shovel
worth carrying.
Rubble is destroyed idealisms
choking the children of creative
incentive. A pocket of clean
air keeps them writhing in the pain
that they just may be found.
To die today would be amnesty
in God we trust the taste of death.

Rustic ruins we can’t defend, for
morals are self imposed internal
interpretations, bending the creative
signs, making majesty the voice
spoken aloud while standing in silent
defiance, without interruption they spray
a new pattern in a new formation.
Pardon our collective carnal spirit
infraction.