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Poem

Retreated in the darkness
Of broken fears,
Your palace found broken
At the bottom of a well.
Well,
What good is it anyhow?
To allow the sweet surge
Of electricity and sweat
After decades of anticipation.
Anticipating the unknown.
The most anticipated 
That has ever been known.
Known amidst the leaves
Who thrive on sunlight
And daily worship
When we're worshiping 
Ourselves.
Ourselves,
Beneath the shelves
Of humanity.
Beneath the shells
Of humility.
Humiliation,
Our comfort zone,
And every in between.
Every twisted, sticky
Dream.
That serves as a theme
For a bloodied torn scene.
Torn amidst the reoccurance
Of worship.
Worship in a million ways.
Only to make one stay.
A stay that last just a moment,
Moments in a second.
Seconding the notion of staying
At the bottom of a well,
In darkness we shall dwell,
Our courses turning synchronal
And yet again so odd.
Audited by a final
Augur
In cases of lamentation.
To tame the lame
And lambasted.
Upsetting the apple cart.
Upsetting the veiled figures 
In sheer obsidian.
Obscene that they too dwell in darkness.
Never entering sunlight
Or fluorescent tissuelike light.
In the limelight of the limited,
Of the disabled 
And the poor.
Only to be pitied
By the pitiful.
Do you wonder why 
The pilgrims bleed for you?
Not because you are
Incapable of worshiping
The house of the light
Or the sick and unwell
But because you choose not to.
In discretion,
You bleed for them too.
For when you observe them in praise
Not in houses of light do they pray,
Not in houses of the omniscient
Or rapturous
But in houses of the ravens.
In houses of the dead
And engravened.
In houses of the damned 
Mutilations
Of depth and devastation
Where putrid, public lynching
Still occurs and endures.
In houses of ebony.

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