Equilibrium passes us by again as
We preach the blindly weighted scale.
Light and an abscess to fight was
An eternal human hold, the line, pale,
Drawn in the impenetrable plaster mold
Seen beyond the watery tears of mourning,
Lives a feeling meant to balance.
Yet how much must one feel and how much must
One not, to reach the eternal human heart
On its high-balanced shelf?
Mirrored first among a familiar,
Those cared for never enough,
A pillar of a rigid life in human harmony.
But to recall its blood distinction, A justice without much,
There knows that not all are deserving, of this true care such
To claim the universal right
An infinitely, divinely human fight
Though who alone is this fight fought
But by those agents of nonsense thought:
The oppressor feels no compassion and yet the rebel far too much
To hear the news, be deep in trance,
All things understood greatly
International pains of true compassion
Have no use in the mind so stately
A love instead, is better left, in the personal wastes
I care too little or not enough,
How is it not clear?
It is not truly how much you feel.
It is not truly for who you feel.
It is not truly wherefore you feel.
Equilibrium comes round at last
How is it not clear?
To find our fulcrum in compassion,
To feel just enough,
It is to make us feel better
In our hatred of ourselves.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
Leafs of paper fell against an autumn-destined sun; words flew through the blind eyes of an anticipating one.
Cars blew smoke in curls, across the still-wet grass, to wrench away a single soul who couldn’t help but pass.
Sun’s up by sun’s down as dawn turned into dusk, awaiting time to sleep, while the moon held its bright husk.
Remembering their way through an ever-changing path, it wasn’t hard to worry for the cold street’s twisted wrath.
A figure in the distance, hope hid but a flame. They walked and met each other’s eyes on the cold, dark, silent plain.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
I
Pluperfection of the past
A passive exists yet not to be
King to corruption to the loved
Dogma in the barbarian’s anarchy
II
New pages to fill
Old ways to rebuild
A birth irreplaceable by mockery
The earth salted yet again
III
Superimposition ex hollow, hallowed knowledge.
Power in our holy heresiarchy
Fire in the humble hearts of our pious clergy
Closure in our medial devotions
IV
Nocturnality, of the space between passivity.
Thoughts of past and future orders.
Magnificent putrefaction of our holy books
Together beyond the demon-blinded sun
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
The place waned beyond the contextual,
The knowledge unsaid by person in prayer
“I am not meant to feel” yet all do swear
By a sentiment undeserving. All
Dissatisfactions leave distraught, maul
The romantic, hatred of the primal
Taught wrong yet right, compassion’s unending air.
I feel a conviction, which I partake
Sealing fate in my own troubling hate
Thoughts given to the truly natural
“I am not meant to feel” yet I do want
To hear the call of the romantics great,
Reject the primal thought. Tasteful
Classics brought to a nonsense dying pant
As wrong an act as an inescapable conviction taught
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC