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Paul Knight-Kirby Poem
The intricate and winding complexity of this aged device groans as its worn exterior strains.
Though delicate, it punctures through the malice of fools' logic, gripping onto a vision modestly contained.
Allowing an inner reflection of its grimy vanity, it projects an altered ego for the faint acceptance of its bleak fantasy.
They will never understand or know the burden of the wise when faced with the limits of stupidity.
The jester of maximum proportion, the seller of false attire,
The woven threads come forth to the gleaming purity of its ultimate destination.
The folly of all ages, that great pretender of truth.
Gone are the days of awakening, shattering belief, and fading away the moment of blissful reign.
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2016
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Paul Knight-Kirby Poem
I envy the dust, the way it moves all free and careless,
released from it’s sleeping state the thunderous pounds
of late shelling, again endless.
Muffled shouting, through this trench confounding,
Mustard attack, gas mask aside, fingers in fumbling fight
bitter cold night in a field.
No fireside, food to bite
cigarettes to smoke and mates to joke.
last one gone two days ago up one minute then vanished in a puff of smoke.
this place is beyond reality, it’s beyond insanity
fighting for earth no mother walked nor father built.
If they want to fight then bring it to my hills, not this flat wasteland of mud, blood, bones and chills.
We were thrown into this bloody war,
and we wont have our say, like we've never had before.
Taken to the slaughter history will say,
throwing ourselves forward like tidal-waves.
Waves on waves of sacrificial lunacy again and again.
we've taken little ground and this other trench looks bad, worse than ours
doesn't looked heavily manned looks like we lost more man.
What do we gain now? apart from more time in thought.
those withered layers of rotting feverish flesh, one part is fresh
the other pure dread.
captain is shouting, up on my legs
what’s going on...conscious or dead?
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2016
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Paul Knight-Kirby Poem
A withered and separated flower lay squashed in bent stature.The wind silently erodes the remaining petals sequentially, with each pulse of the air.
A distant nightmare, tangibly manifested, the echoing warning from the past.
A trapped piece of newspaper married to a low-lying hedge branch, concealed from notice, dead from purpose.
An hourglass society, scuttling around in organized vice and engineered hypocrisy with time to dictate and money to distract.
A plague of opinions in this boundless possibility never reaching bedrock. A gash made upon the earth, a slow
puncture untreated in our hourglass existence we believe isn’t moving.
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2019
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Paul Knight-Kirby Poem
I once owned a uniform that shone in pride
The polished brass, creases and lines
An army of friends and civilian respect
I marched upon every street, placed every laureate
The glowing admiration, the tireless market
Of gazing faces that sung even to the heartless
Badgered by memories that I couldn’t forget
Now withered and worn the years of regret
My mental battle the suffering toll of silence
No words I could mouth about the raw entirety
Flashbacks of those wars supplying me
But I sit a cluster of before
My battlefield a daily occurrence of aimlessly wandering
In routine emergence
of seeking cigarette butts and borrowing more time and beer
To drown out the battle none but mine could hear
I clamber from bush broken sunlight, coughing up
The empty sobriety of reality
Just a used device a human resource
Hoodwinked and lead noose in ignorant obligation
A never-ending instigation from mind emancipation
From this dumb founded degree of humiliation
Drunken laughter upon this man once bold
Pissing on the soul, and soles of my ragged boots I couldn’t maintain or even hold
Completely neglected by all I did serve
Now served by a starvational solitude
A face that none could remember, a shadow of my youth
Just aloof, wandering every day until my feet give up from the holes in my boots
Until I drop dead like the rest of the ‘glorious dead’
Should have been left with my rifle on a battlefield proper
Something my mind could accept, something I would now offer.
And who would care and would begin to wonder
Who these men were and why in such slumber
After all I am just a homeless soldier.
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2016
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Paul Knight-Kirby Poem
The crow is solemn among the branch,
Staring at nothing but horizons and bark.
The snow capped scene it did surround, in the quiet, sleepy
and noisy town.
The crow shudders its wings and wakes the snow in a hazy
Clouded shroud the crow did go
He had witnessed the inhabitants more than he dare see
The abuse, the guile the festering fleas
The rodents of theatre masquerading a foul vigor
In duplicated ego, and whispered intuition.
He saw the truth he saw the daily lies the grand hypocrisy
The grand prevail.
They cannot ere another fable the replica of tales repeats
In ceaseless curiosity.
He flaps amongst the cold air and feels the rush of europhia
As he dances with ability, freedom and choice
The crow moves in unstoppable momentum towards the observed horizon
And behind the orange glow of life.
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2016
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Paul Knight-Kirby Poem
Here's a refined version of your poem, with a focus on improving grammar, punctuation, and structure while preserving your unique imagery and tone:
I wander through the maze of time,
Gazing upon every century,
Each turn leading me astray along
Fascinating arrays of cobbled roads,
Beer-soaked corners, and freshly watered bouquets.
This unique charm, unified by
The usual hustle of most western cities,
Stands firm amidst multitudes
Of admirers.
An opera of reality,
Singing loud in silent nostalgia.
Conventional yet complex,
A weighty rock sinking under human creativity,
Yet sitting in invincible unity.
Among swarms of dust,
Battered by ceaseless activity,
An oiled engine forever purring,
Forever working, with inexhaustible duty.
A machine that never stops, never
Sleeps.
Awaiting the next influx of eyes,
Every minute descending from the skies.
An elixir of life,
Continuously evolving under the weight of existence,
Greeting the morning sun,
Starting another day on the routine of innocence
Among the charcoal lungs
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2016
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Paul Knight-Kirby Poem
Modern day Empire
The same as old,
Man doesn't really have time
Just Inventions and different clothes.
Still craving our nature the two split purpose,
Consumption and reproduction
All else is conjuring vanity,
An evolving Microchip of lost perception, a tinted clarity.
Yet we entrapped ourselves into a diamond cast,
Being compounded by every grasp that meets ear, eye and touch.
Never forget the truth bearing lust,
that feeling of inner-ness that splinter-hair precision awareness
And ask the question you've subconsciously locked away
Why are you being and what are the aims?
And then at that moment your shell will fall apart
so remind yourself of the real truth the binds mind and heart,
and roam among your ancestors in the lyceum of endless fascination
in one's mighty reflection and complacence.
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2013
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Paul Knight-Kirby Poem
The world is a lave a pallet of creation
Looking into space, a futile distraction
The earth is in space and all it represents
Looking upward wondering ignoring the obvious
The pattern of nature the key to life
Everything in nature release us from strife
From wondering mind, from wondering soul
Pillar too pillar young and old
Some think of it as architecture, some confusing mess,
Some a spontaneous fragment of scientific jest
To some a duty a jigsaw to caress,
And some just get on and never confess
We each hold the answer to our brain
Coming once sometimes again and again
Sometimes never at all, contained in distraction
The harrowing lore, the abyss of infatuation
The buckled belt restraint on the mind
Have to find out, not sure I will with death and time
But will it empower or dissolve my life
Sitting here continually wondering why
When that could be it, just to live to experience and enjoy it
And we the fools who try to explain never understood the simplicity
Expanding our stupidity with information overload, we didn't need
To study or to vex our thoughts flexing our complexion
With stressful sickness broken and distraught,
Are we just the sickness in god’s body?
A disease spreading in the DNA of the supreme
Thinking we are special, a comforting belief
Or are we trapped in our own creation,
Our creation is no waiting quotation
Or selfish intoxication of boredom
Or perhaps, the conclusion the capstone solution
Buried with its foundation, alas the incantation released
And now fondled into confusion its veil of truth still uncovered
No one is true enough to bind its rudder,
Elevate one’s conscience, conjure up the thunder
Not in modern times where knowledge is sought
By any mind, any person, any element of thought.
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2012
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Paul Knight-Kirby Poem
We the victim's of incompetence
We the pawns of vain experiments
Imprisoned by oligarchic, social engine.
Our pains, reflected by gluttonous pride.
Fermenting in black boil bubbling greed
Modern slavery in it's prime, glistening
like polished diamond shine.
All pretentious, phoney entrapment,
lurking through time, the ideal system,
for a criminal eye, the perfect crook,
filtered on a system it built, it impressed,
and we undertook, now just mere
puppets,
Upon the ladder of fingers,
The shadow composer casting the melody
of subjugated illusion, laughing at ease,
gazing upon their resolution.
A famine of needs and desires, tortured
by the selected lot, who mock as we rot,
in the mould around the bars of our cot.
The misleading consequence of
innocence, of ignorance, of vulnerability.
The digital web of deception, ripples in
shuddered glee, it's next victim
screaming, and then hushed silently
among those chambers of conformity, an
commodity given a number and then
freed, for some years.
Next it's taught to adhere to the
requirement of 'our' society,
Pushed through any resistance,
Your ADD, labeled and branded for all to
see, your defunct from a higher form, an
acceptable sense of reality, the easier
chores of slavery,
and less material distraction, an extra
penalty.
In the sinister sweating perversion,
The passive exodus that moves in night
and day excursions, fossiled in a lava of
weary confusion.
We are the lost Generation on a path we
cannot see, in a destiny that isn't you and
isn't me.
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2012
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Paul Knight-Kirby Poem
Swirling gases and gigantic clusters of floating rock
black-holes and supernovas and radioactive dust,
the pinnacle of all imagination living magic and void from adaptation or joint celebration
gravity's fabric cuddling the weight of all creation.
Spinning in numb service for the unknown purpose
the cornucopia of wonder and fear.
Will the mind even conjure the wisdom of thou?
desperately waiting for reason seeking out?
Or shall we ever wallow in worn theory,
waiting for a trained genius to add to this story
Or will death allow the cheat giving us our comforting complete,
or will we retreat back to logic's feet and find we are just
mere accident all bacteria, atoms just freaks!
Either way it's magic and welcome when in nothing.
the smashing of need the screaming of invention and happening
the living canvas ever added and amended, ever made and forgotten.
Consumed and cemented a dancing pattern each to their own the
Ceaseless ripples of organized chaos drift us more from home.
And every conclusion the same the black hole and life again.
Copyright © Paul K K | Year Posted 2016
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