What if the wisdom of words seen so often as absurd,
Were worth little more than rich men care,
For the plight or the might that lead weak men to fight
To be treated as equals with rights, how they dare.

Where the poor tend to weep, when the rich steal to keep,
There rotund and repugnant revolting form,
When these are the rules, when we are fooled by the fools,
How could fair society ever be born?

Painted rose red and guilty, simply fickle and filthy,
How quickly the glimmer of hope tends to dim,
But when a true cause is just, truth gripped tightly we must,
Fight with all ourselves and our hearts and we'll win.

We are sheep in a herd, trusting wolves at their word,
Who worship pigs up on high that we feed,
But by number we are greater, beyond wolf hides are sheep traitors,
With pigs in their pens we can succeed.

We are born equal, the same, through each other we all gain,
I'm unsure what will come after the fall,
But when no man is master, then we can build it must faster,
At last our future that is fair and for us all.

In points of importance I have few,
That took time to recognise,
To rationalise a reason why none are new,
I found so hard realise.
That the mind and icon behind these eyes
Is nothing but another me,
That the version that I once was traps the old
And seeks to be set free,
That the dark, dank and dreaded depths of deception,
That my soul daily dredges through,
Finds so few sweet, sepia toned seconds of recollection,
So much more worn than when they were new.
Like a limb that has become rotten to me,
Removal is the only cure,
But separation seems so sadly to be,
Impossible to endure.
To remove myself from my versions past,
To see another dawn,
Like phoenix forged and formed in fire at last,
I too must be reborn,
The terrifying thought to be born screaming, new,
Into the world again,
Rebirth would mean everything to redo,
Even brand new pain,
Just as with any birth I need refrain,
To decide what I will do,
But just as birth and death are the same door frame,
I’m slowly making it through.

I wonder, as I wander meandering down meander lines, whether meaning lies as simple lines, or branches like the trees about which climb aloft, just as with meanings and intentions, I can't see the endings nor the roots of soils retention, which are buried beneath just like it is in us hidden and only revealed; in a small and concealed mention.

But my attention is not broken, like the fallen branches as gifts or tokens, which lay snapped and separate at my feet, disorganised as soldiers bodies who lay dying on a war ground in defeat, along with these comrades are kept, autumn-ed oranged leaves of trees, that crunch beneath my step and fly within the breeze, as the wind ebbs and flows around me, as the forest breathes.

Though life is as equally as around me, as it is walking down the road, somehow I'm more comfortable amongst these, though they're as equally unknown. There isn't stillness, life is here, the forest flows and moves and it feels like kin are near, that the branches pushing out are reaching like open arms to hold me, contrary to what midnight shadows and horror stories have always taught me.

These contorted, twisted statues so stern and certain, that you are drawn behind the curtain into worlds beyond your own, far past the treaded paths that are to us so comfortably known, to dimensions pushing out into further, by mother nature to preserve her unknowns, these haunting hollow hallows happily taken as adopted homes.

All my wonderings are clearing as the forests edge I am now nearing, all those thoughts I had been fearing are lost and bliss is searing on my mind, though the future is where I’m headed, to the present I am tethered, gone away is the dreaded past on those treaded paths I leave behind.

I see flaws in people like cracks on the pavement,
So trust me when I'm avoiding pictures and mirrors, it's no kind of statement,
It's just a reflection reflects more than I'd ever want it to,
All that I can and could not do, dreams and thoughts, all that is false and true,
It's like opening a book and knowing the story,
The plot twists, the characters emotions, and history in the cold when it's stormy,
That's what I see, I don't see me,
What I perceive is what I believe, that which I need and dream to be,
Though the mirror hanging on the wall is fine it's me that's cracked,
Fractured, captured in a moment where I am still seeing everything I lack,
So I'll continue to duck and weave from what I perceive, dodging mirrors and photographs,
I don't know my whole story, of my book this is just the first draft,
So I'm gonna focus on ignoring it all and doing what I can,
Because in reflection a reflection isn't everything I am.

How foolishly fickle,
I fall as when I was little,
In and out of transitioning crushes,
And when I come to wonder why, Eros blushes,
Time pushes through me egging me onto further failure and upset,
For every lasting moment of sincere joy there are a thousand to regret,
And yet still to the slaughter house I take my step,
No matter the pierce of pain or splatter of tears wept,
Crimson dreams haunt my footfalls,
Hiding from them in the isolation of four walls,
To breach my inner sanctum is great action,
My existence constantly undergoing rarefaction,
Hinged by thoughts and daydreams I’m unhinged by reality,
And the glimpses in between at the insane and preposterous somehow hold my sanity,
My mind aches with too much company at times,
But my heart breaks from the loneliness of my mind,
I am trapped between these parallels that fixate on why I’m here,
But with the loss of the loose grip I hold I so fear I’ll disappear
Into nothing, the abyssal void of life beyond life,
And the reasons for me to join them for me at least seem so rife,
So now I sit, play a show of my invention on my wit, show the drink where it was that I was bit,
And like a puzzle piece that nobody mentioned with no dimension try to find somewhere that I fit.

My memory's are thick like molasses as I drown in melancholy,
Sickened and surrounded by reasons to be sorry,
People don't understand a reason to drink,
But my god how blissful it is not to think.
My thoughts are toxic and torturous to the point of terror and ache,
I push my paramount and persist against avoiding a break,
I am holding to reserve pain for another day,
How these thick and terrible thoughts won't simply go away.

In winter past I was was warmed by just your loving gaze,
But came the passing of December,
Our love my dear, it never blazed,
But left a single dying ember,
Though my soul was kindling for your care,
I was your respite between love,
When I fell frozen you were far from there,
I used to think that I was not enough,
Above and beyond I tried to raise, myself past words I'd heard said,
But these were younger foolish days,
When I heard truths as lies instead,
I have led myself down frozen paths,
As I have often snowed myself in,
If words are cure, this is my thousandth draft,
To ail what lies within,
And every time I have to ask,
Why the world must spin,
But you have become my winter past,
As I'm keen to greet the spring.