dancing, writhing in the daisies-
make me foaming, rabid
If they charge with wand in hand,
to save the hopeless and the damned
And staunch the endless flow of blood,
we would surely all be drowned,
6 feet under, in the ground-
And who among us left to judge,
Explain those words of peace and love,
To each and every corpse decaying
in the Crimson, rotting,
and charnel prose,
sprinkled with a mystic promise.
Sordid mildewed fares and tokens,
all truth unspoken.
Artful, pretty proclamations,
lullabies to misplaced fancy.
and faithless present,
no shining future I’ve to tend.
A blind eye turned-
then quickley burned.
I listen to my sage excuses,
these silly muses.
Ashes fed to dying flame;
no guilt or shame.
Just this plant I tried to fuel,
conceived of plastic leaves and shoots;
there are no buds, no colored blooms…
no grasping reaching hungry roots-
for nothing living ever grows
in cold and silent,