The whistling wire held the scene,
headlong in wisdom and ulterior motives,
glistening midst the mid morning dew.
A pariah was needed, a messianic fraud,
a masochistic minister
draped solemnly in monastic garbs,
eloquent in verse and fluent in scripture.
The candidates were few in number,
but fastidious in hope,
eagerly chaining themselves to the
Byzantine pillars of top down tenacity,
passively quoting the quintessential paradigms,
a multitude of woe.
The secretarial promise was soon fulfilled,
The malamide drenched doyens of crystalline faith
drew blood from the stone,
usurping the misogynistic hierarchy
of erstwhile fatherhood,
“Leave time as it is… without redemption or hope.”
The carnival of carnality
led an abattoir in bloom,
the mythic gesture of choral pragmatism,
an existential orifice pervading ingrate lust.
Adjacently exposed, the ballpoint corridors
of evangelical awareness lay silently intact.
Tracing the tactless tracts of
faecal vocalism and liberalistic aesthetics,
slithering amidst loquacious prose.
Seething under the rhythmic theocracy of solicited denial,
“Ink stains, smudged with disillusionment,
partitioned the periphery of each and every lucid statement.
Fleetingly reserved and intrinsically denounced.
Drowning amongst the quill tipped cartilage
of unanimous appraisal.”