Freethinker
In the still of the night,
spectro-gramming the hot utter of air,
filtered by laser strainer-
it has become a scale for judgment scaled by tier
a black hole of sin in my pocket,
a poetry of despair,
a wage for integrity telling the enemy "he is right here".
As failure singing the blues in a dream of black and white mocked by the colors of the news,
stocked by the vitamin of social credit score tablets,
swallowed before sack cloth noose rids golden goose for evils' good.
Apathy's predicament is now merged with mine,
of human elements refined and drunk like a fine wine,
predicate bouquet on how we all got here,
fermented in the depths of woodwork reveal
the cast of villains' -uncelebate pulpit bull of celebrity- celebration- confetti- a stain and catalytic veneer that the breeze sweeps curiously about whorish amphitheatre- without a care
of our souls chemically castrated, emotions distilled to fill their containment.
A dance of passion and pain, secrets left behind with our shoes and belongings as we walk the thin red line, shamed.
Upon the canvas of existence, painted with a ghost trail of tears,
a masterpiece of heartache, and unspoken modulation and post processing annihilation
slaughterhouse symphonics in slow motion of half-life notion,
playing softly in the background,
like a crimson ocean.
Into the shadows of twilight's veil,
where whispers meet the fading light,
and loudspeakers sorrow and wail,
echoes through the endless night
at the camp of nowhere-
stirs the soul's hidden place in a game of "Running Man" and commercial booster shot in place of pillbox warfare.
Ledgers of the heartache
that lingers here, of failure to launch through scrubbed google barrier.
TriForce echo of the sorrow
that shrouds the morning light as a hot iron brain blanche snuffs out
the fight.
Through trials of any length or magnitude eclipaed- in the midst of candied darkness,
frequency of
"Ralkon Dis"
reflections of a soul's climb of prisons watchtower
this sentence
on the edge of the abyss,
where hope and despair represent good and evil and river styx fare,
a moment of truth held amiss,
in the chaos our hearts confide.
As the agate whispers, in soft, gentle blink.I express with the dying lightning ripping from the tit of home and thrown to the wolves of the pit, who scatter your memoric bones to the four winds- stair
to their thrones.
Or in final thoughts of home before the bullets swiss with kiss like a litebrite hole shining through where there was once care.
Copyright ©
Jude Herrick
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