Parish Loveless

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I do not think that there will be a day when I can say
those words;
You see, it is much easier for me to be afraid;
It is those regretable feelings that turn my heart away,
tortured and then left standing without a hand to hold;
Lovelessly; it was already dead as I awoke,
prayers could not save me for the words were spoken;
echoes bounced off the walls of the inner core,
frost biten heart and misfortune foretold;
upon the wretchedness of a broken soul.
Aye; my mind’s eye can never truly divide reality from that which is imagined, dreamed and envisioned by thy divine creation.
The consequences that have trenched my redemption out last my longest breath;
I choke on the very air that has absorbed it’s aroma,
the fragrance is pure hell & stinks of weed;.
Fermented thoughts cast shallow seeds that sprought into mutated nonsense-
it is me without the ridicolous relation or course of action
that may do us all in.
A relapse or regression destroys any chance of salvation;
piety glimpses of such said reprecussions would be widespread.
Tangent is to the weak as creative form is to it’s master,
humanity is chaotic;
reproducing diaster after diaster …
Since that last war;
ever ago, before the egocentric lust became the consumer’s rule;
riddles were the trick and fluent in appraisal from mass appeal-
sadness could be embellished instead of managed by viles;
caregivers nursed their patients while radical movements smothered fire.
Purpose that pursued with a passion that only the fearless, cunning and benevolent could muster;
a world that was not of such conceived notions that of a clusterfuck.
And thy; O’ great divider of faith and filth,
I get a knee jerk reaction when I hear your whispers as you wreck havoc upon your rampart!
How your life must be filled with only the most expensive of wines, fruits, venison and marrow-
how we attune when you get by our eager gust …
I see the blood spurt from your sockets;
I can feel the sorrow that you enclose within your soulless cadaver.
The things that we do to get us through the days we have on earth,
journeying through it backwards until the day we reverse our course.
A gravitional pull keeps us grounded to an extent,
unseemingly known phrases come at a glance;
appearing to be rhetoric.
It is not in a depressional state which I scribe,
these days it is often mistaken for a realistic tone;
We must own up to what we have measured and claim our homes.
I am only a metaphor;
the surest might of a thought,
collecting memory of the new world as it has become lost in the shadows of doubt.


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