• How Quaint More Lives Are Lost To A Rigorist Sigh Than To Bullets

    Another morning wasted in hysterical swoon
    To the skull bled markings running deep through the skin
    Thoughts that play by like a record train
    That pop the veins candidly just like a Novocain
    With water that flows like melodies timeworn
    Nostalgia keeps all the keys
    Lost in these walls I can’t say it all
    Was worth it but it’s what I need

    The world isn’t as cold as the war is sublime
    The heart is a time bomb without any wires
    The view isn’t deadly but the soul will deny
    That like flowers we only thrive in season
    Our fire the remnant of pieces that with time cool
    As time heals all wounds but knowledge

    So what is love that can’t be requited by way of empathy?
    A cruel jest at the poorer side of reasoning
    The pulse tips in way of checks and balances
    Something uncontrolled by a “sacredness” blind
    But by the cleansing of the mind
    The admission of defeat
    By palms that have a choke-hold on our very being, our hearts

    The world is not but just a stage
    The faces are not always a façade
    The view becomes thicker as the truth becomes brighter
    That like flowers will die in season
    Our fervor the memorandum that with time fades
    As time heals all wounds but knowledge

    I, too, have faced morning light when have howled for the moon
    I, too, awake startled at the secrets confessed in my dreams
    There is not a person that is unburdened by the scars of temptation
    For those souls are shallow, shallow caricatures of a man
    Enough can drive fantasy wild and leave a stunted reality dead
    For there is none crueler than an unrealistic heart
    Than perhaps an entire world built with one after another on top
    That so taken for sincere falls

    The world is not represented by any cliché of persona
    The unbridled sense of something that is naught
    The views of persistent vigilantes that command how to rule the stars
    That individuals may raise eyes to a course of phantasmal dream
    That break the thumbs of bladed and irrationalized weeping
    That wield fate like something worth keeping
    As I know that what I have is not a wound
    Though steep and stung with blood
    It’s a knowledge that looms over the best of intentions
    But a hell-bound spell kissed with lust
    If only time healed all wounds, if only there were enough time
    It’s an incandescent vicious cycle
    Stirred only by those who are in love