Astray

And even though the pen is mightier than the sword, I seem to have lost my presence in a grieving combat, Valuing the occupancy of idle prayers contoured, Less the guilt of maturing through a horde of dirty facts; The world finds me sundry rationales to scream this pain, Diversifying my wisdom with that of teary remains, Bickering the thought of justified emancipation While agonizing seems my choice of venom, though hardly sustained; But just when I approach the closest line of victory, Memories of inane sorrow, these lanes of tomorrow find me astray; More than a bloody design, I’m the obligation of teary flow Scripting this narration across walls of empty vocation, Patronizing my guilt through aisles of surrendered shadows, And still not found within the satisfaction of dreary locations; My worst nightmare seems to be this occupation I pursue, Crying paths towards freedom, and still no escape… If patience is a nourishment of tears, the Lord must identify truths That retaliate intentions hallucinating the pretence of faith, For where a tale of occult visions begin, Words of poetic exercise, a world composed of lies find me astray;