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Poem

These chains of deceit that bind me to this hardwood seat. 
I bend and break the bars that confine, but they remain, like the haughty, jagged grin of an eroded skull. 
Such good times as these are even visited by dark slips of the gut from thoughts of tortures past. 
It was a massive structure, swathed in a meagerly regal indigo, lined in placid silver. 
In this place I did not cry of neglect. I was no dark horse, puffing promises of vengeance 
for the cruelty and nonchalance of my lords. 
They catered to me well, forever willing to stir into my cauldron their own lazily construed dogmas. 
But O, so long as I gazed upon the faces of my peers, eyes starried with anticipation of knowledge 
and fantastic visions of other world intrigue, I could not lead the expected life of indifference. Intrigue 
of the kind that I confusedly examined, reaching deep into the dark, conceptual pit of the unknown, and unproven. 
Exhausted, I came to my knees, deep in the cave, to rest, to wait for all the promised realities to reveal themselves. 
I waited so very long for such things. Drew and blew irreplaceable breaths 
awaiting the truth of falsehood to at last burst forth, at the final moment, to redeem itself.

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