Under the Cross
A conscious effort
by the constrained
creates nothing.
Devoid of inspiration,
enraged egotists find
fault in selfless pursuit of
glory.
Hampered by the
infancy of others,
jettisoned memories of
ketamine disassociation allow
lies to fester.
Myopic interludes of
nihilistic pleasure
only serve to
profundicate the
questionably sane
revolver in my hands
sublime speech on world peace.
There is no sense left
under the cross.
Violins are broken,
weapons formed while
xylophone keys shatter
Yale’s prestige as king of the
zoo.
Copyright © Mitchell Eadie | Year Posted 2013
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