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Where does it all go?
The hungry void before.
We avoid knowing after.
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Crimson tears
Winsome fear
Discreetly sordid days
In a sweetly morbid way
Practiced incantations
Unlucky lack of patience
Can and cannot, completely knot
Entangled connotations
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Naked. No better time to wash away
And watch awry
With ‘Why’ as the only target
We are born again Bukowski
Born into this,
But embrace it
And dismiss the obvious
We are bound to miss
The hand under the rubble,
If trouble troubles you
Follow the broken language
Of doubt-ridden benefits
Hope befits youth
Youth befits the accelerated aging
Of a world in debt and down
Castrated
Debauched
Disinherited
We have been called to mission
Pull the trigger
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Flight!
Ascension
To a heightened dimension
Freedom, mid-suspension
Above cobbled conventions
No use for retention
Or pension for passions passed
This is one less distraction
An injection of action, at long last
or
Invention intervention
or
Inception of conception
or
Singing new beginnings
of
A brand new direction
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So what happens next?
Fold the page and crease the future into now
Today grieves to know.
Feel for those moments moved by prophesy
A bright beam from behind to burst a glimpse of
A giant shadow from tomorrow’s raised totem
Search the oasis; A savior or its guise
Implore the glooming unknown, loyal and unnerving
Pour, once more, into the pitch dark well and wait
Forever for never will reverberate back as nothing
Black well full of nothing
Or maybe something swept under the thunder
Exiled back into existence
Encircling is Ceaseless Idleness
Rebellion, Renunciation,
The Waste Land or Outright Rites of Passage
This may not be so wrong afterall
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