An ardent soliloquy of effusive loneliness;
But a fervent display of fanciful companionship.
Fanciful, but of choice limited to one.
As soft lonesome light glows through a goblet;
Deep in red of fallacious blood,
And to speak of which I long, with one of similar mind,
Yet contradictory in gender,
Be it in terms as well.

Solitariness to me, seems bestowed.
And at times I see its light.
Or not so much light, more of a dim and distant glow,
Coming to me through that goblet,
Through the liquid lie it holds.

Imbued with the notion of these times,
I long to be, even an appendix to a Pantisocracy,
Where subjugation and self righteousness are equally redundant,
Not surplus; not wanted.
Perpetual anticipation for this future,
Is the ultimate test of faith in righteousness.

Hate what’s mediocre and banal too.
Despise them both and take the two to task.
Their infection consumes flight of fancy,
Hidden behind a bland and facile mask.

Please write your tale to help disarm the pair.
Together we can speed up their demise.
Although there are greater forces at work,
Much more than most, the same do they despise.

It is still so, but the hatred makes way,
For the flight of our thoughts, thus creating,
Works of beauty; wondrous to minds of men.
What’s hated, in truth is sublimating.

The platitude “Thinking outside the box”,
A phrase by those whom ignorantly use,
Lead astray by these bland meaningless masks,
Fall short of honing tools with which to prove.

To begin with, there is a strong feeling,
An analogy in a nutshell which,
Is presented to aid understanding,
Curtailing a cerebral glitch.

Then a comparison to the flip side,
Passionately pervading all angles,
Adding anticipation and power to,
The carroty denouement that dangles.

Who will you vote for this next time around?
Blue to conserve debt to pay the elite?
Red for more war governed by their greed?
Yellow for an enforced democracy?
Surrounded by rocks and hard places we are.

Man’s manifesto seldom improves with
Another war to end all wars… again.
Attacks of terror as war on terror.
An imposing bill to bail out bankers;
Their active avarice governed by greed.

Don’t vote for extortion when you have no money.
Don’t vote for war when you don’t want to fight.
Don’t vote for distortion of utopian harmony.
Don’t vote, because that is also your right.

Procuring conditioned conformity;
Pejorative and intentional,
Disdainful to divinity.
Subjugation subliminal.

Facile masks of jocundity,
Blind us from the notion,
To which our hearts open ignorantly,
Causing inevitable commotion.

1st Movement:

When I hear the knocks at my door I’m filled with hope. Hope that it’s my good old friend coming to see me again and fill me with his familiar presence. By equal measures, though, I feel fear. Fear that it’s my good old friend back again to fill me with that all too familiar darkness. They’re gentle knocks, sinister but as grating and aggressive as a great dog’s bark. The sound turns the air to a particular darkness which fills my lungs and heart. Fear interspersed with curiosity compels me to answer the door with haste and resignation to his behest, if only to refine this binary mixture of emotions to one or the other. Both are equally awful as each other, for this old friend is not the kind of friend one would willingly welcome. He’s the sort of friend who, when he wants to come in, he will, and I’ve learned over the years that it’s easier to let him. Let him in to wreak his worst on me and let him go again until his return. He always returns.

This ‘good old friend’ I speak of is the crafty external force which deceives me with my heart’s treachery to believe his bogus internality. He deceives me and he deceives my heart, my mind, my soul; my whole being, the whole world. The sooner I let him in and the more open and receptive I am to his abuse, the sooner he will leave. Leave me for a moment’s respite from his damning indictment which screams of anger at his own futility.

The figurative door barks only in my brain, but the definite door knocks gently, devoid of any disturbance. As I open the door the darkness dissipates making way to a bright clarity. My fallible heart was presuming the worst, yet not knowing it. Standing before me is my friend, my brother securely holding in his hands the words written that everything will be alright. Not now, and we know not when, but everything was, and will be again.

I put on a mask of happiness to fool my brother to altruistically manipulate his altruism toward me, but to my own detriment. My own success backfires. My brother, fooled in my eyes, serves the manipulation straight back to me. Facile happiness abounds us both driving enthusiasm with which to examine the words he holds, and to diligently extrapolate the truth from the book he bears quenching our thirst driven by our mutual love for truth.  As his eyes close to another world, another dimension, mine too close seeing only the questions asked in my imagination. What does he under his eye lids see? Where are his words going, and to whom other than me? These are the questions he is here to answer, unbeknownst to me. The questions I’ve been silently asking ever since I learned to question. The same questions every single person in existence, excluding none, asks all the time. Some ask with hope of an answer. Others, enveloped with contentiousness, ask to prove a nonexistent point and perpetually fail to succeed, mocking only themselves. But do they know they mock? The self ridicule is cloaked in self righteousness woven by this world with its daily, bite size propaganda fed through speakers and screens right into the deepest recesses of the mind. The dangling carrot promising satisfaction. Playing on our inherent knowledge that there is something better, something more resemblant of that originally intended perfection for which we all strive in our divinely uneducated way. There is something better than the devastation we witness encompassing our souls and poisoning our hearts, making us sick. A sickness self inflicted from the view of the original intender. A donkey won’t chase the dangling carrot without the hunger. The screens drip feed us hunger and, offering the unattainable antidote, it keeps us chasing.

My brother has come to help me use my mental tools to instil the abiding antidote from these words. Words with which to gradually alter my outlook on their beauty. My previous reverence for poetry changing like the tides, flowing and ebbing over and again, gently moulding the lands into more beauteous forms making known nature’s true name.

יהוה; quintessence of the words,
Of beauty to our ears.
Not love of mind nor fanciful sight,
Nor tenacity of breath of those who might,
Speak provocation of effusive tears.

Diversification of those whose diction,
Expansion was sought imploringly,
Displayed meek thirst,
For knowledge first;
They’ll be blessedly beset linguistically.

Longing rills of liquefied utterance,
Reverberating waves aplenty,
Bellowing whispers loud,
Heard from within a shroud,
Giving rise to a barrel never empty.

Roaring murmurs of ripples in thousands
Cascading to oceans below,
A fast falling downward demise,
Sounding white truth and that of black lies,
Of onomatopoeic H2O.

Not stringent is the string of letters,
Lax are the words to be strung.
Not sequentially,
But dulcetly,
Outward beauty will be rung.

With a patterned strike using one’s cerebella Mallet
On the gong of one’s cerebral stock,
Eloquence imbues,
The mind your ears use,
Curtailing the perpetual tick tock – tick tock.

Facile masks circle that face,
Consuming as they revolve.
Filched is elation,
Taken is creation.
Yet knowing the inevitable resolve.

We know now, consciously or not, with whom we originate. What stops us from connecting the dots. A dot-to-dot; something so easy to do, but where those dots continue to move, we fail to place the blame succeeding to rue. Frustration turns to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to he; The dot mover, the obstructer, the distractor, the decoy from truth, from love, justice, from every good thing. We know whose power the world lies within, yet choose ignorance over the truth which we already know in our hearts.

These realisations are made like Wordsworth’s frost at midnight. They perform their secret ministry through the air, over my body and penetrating my mind and heart, upheld by any wind from my or my brothers mouth. Each and every utterance supports any later rumination on the truth, the lie, and anything in between these extreme poles of all that’s known and that which is unknown, seen and unseen, loved and hated.

These reciprocal uplifting and upbuilding exchanges, each a divine gift, a string of gems to have and hold for time indefinite, aid an understanding of the one responsible for such. So little time we have left, yet such extravagant lengths of this most precious dimension is wasted arguing for and against, but never asking who or why? Surely only a fool argues a case about that which is unknown. The facts form irrefutability, yet the propensity to form too fast with a one sided judgement still wins while we dote on our own supposed intelligence.

Acknowledging the light seeping through the cracks in the still darkness, he rages with a concentrated anger at his self generated, perpetual, vindictive blindness. He is that getter in the way of things, the shadow caster, the adversary, שָׂטָן.

He is the darkness licking round the door frame, to my mind with all his might and yet crafty restraint. Not one of us can escape this darkness, not on our own. We can, though, shed light on it. Light will always win where both are present. Darkness may be the fundamental state, but where light is allowed, darkness is always destroyed.

But then it comes over me like a tidal wave. A darkness rushes at me like a sledgehammer for making this realisation. Past the point of no return do I give in. I give up. It’s too much. Only so much ducking and weaving can one man’s energy let him do till there is none left, and now it’s gone. I’ve run dry to doom, run into the ground. I’m broken.

Time rolls on filled with a single solid nothing. The weeks pass. The days, the hours go by sniggering and sneering. The clock’s face look down his nose and finds me. To us, time seems the highest of all dimensions, but as obscure as it is, by what does it run? A question we have not enough time to fully answer scientifically. Science by it’s very nature is the perpetuation of posing question after question until the answer lies beyond comprehension. Posing question after question to answer with evidence is categorically finite. Uncertainty is an underlying rule pervading science itself, though faith follows beyond the apparent end. One will never know just how much of a threat obtaining this faith can be to he, the adversary.

Life’s doorman presenting my open garment inviting me into the warm wrappings of my winter coat to deceptively soften the mourning of the summer we lost. That paradise on which we passed. Beaconing me into the warm wrapping only to send me astray, away, adrift from the truth to eternal ruth and regret of one day.

At this my brother departs for his own trials in his own house, thus leaving me to petition and plead for a helping hand out of the ill-lighted and lurid cavernous fog I find myself in. There’s a relentless pain pervading my whole soul, but the pane in the wall frames nature’s beauty which taunts me so. A picture plane presenting a small glimmer of the bliss meant to be. A hope of spiritual prosperity, assurance for which we have been given, though the reminders are not easy. The doorman’s world drives his crafty vehicle of dangling carrots with such ferocity to blind us. The speed blinds the minds of those who stopping, would realise there’s string and a stick. It’s a trick. A trick which has seen us plough through a vast array of food, a banquet, chasing the ever out of reach embellished single grain, though always the closest.

Try as he might to perpetuate this fight, us, his captives, continue to fight longer and harder with a never ending and unlimited supply of the best weapon known to man. Love. From where does it flow? To where does it go? First we have to know, and once harboured, we must direct its flow.

Five years have passed. Five summers with the length of five long winters, and again I hear these waters rolling from their mountain springs with soft in-land murmur.
(William Wordsworth - Lines Written at Tintern Abbey)

The mountain spring is where. A monumental spring of an historic scale from mount zion producing a never ending murmur of love to cascade over the ocean of a people lowering themselves to the strongest and most sturdy section of the mountain.

As the result of a string of mutations, always mutating and never improving, is always the same, such a long string will never become rope. An infinite number of monkeys given an infinite number of typewriters and infinity itself will rewrite the entire works of Shakespear. Those who read a Shakespear and surmise the existence of a lot of literate monkeys, are vacuous victims of international mind-numbing, but wilfully so.

Saturated with such a concentrated concoction of diverse threads erratically woven into a veil, a cloak of lies behind which their lack of faith is hiding, a falsity for their fallacy; the world frantically searches for truths using tools honed only by the world, on which the adversary hones his trident. Needles in haystacks the truths may be, but once found they’re overt, obviously. They are the flames that burn the darkness, a holocaust of murk, the Wally amongst the distracting cacophonous din of hustle-bustle of faceless herds trudging in binary directions to their fraudulent feed of false food disguised as noble inflections.

The casting of light in our eyes, as pennies of an historic value drop, irradiates the notion that our eyeballs have been boring into truths and truth has been peering back for all time past. Have we not seen because the want to see was lacking, or did we not see because our ability was cracking? Were the lights on with nobody home, or were they residing in darkness? The utterance of my brother came inspired, “If we focus on misfortune, we will reap what we sow. Focus on the truth and let everyone know”.

Asking is merely making known one’s requirement for information. Prior to this we must attest the intent of receiving such. Though, the truth has been granted devoid of request, negate it has not our silent behest. Do we need to know the truths we now see in plain sight, to live our lives in harmony?

In a world without compassion, where the hungry are starved, the thirsty desiccated, the poor deprived, and the weak expended; does the supposed prime driver really give two hoots about the starving, desiccated, deprived and expendable; me, you, us? Ostensibly not.

Surely a world of war where we’re sick and we suffer will have been founded by not one whit related to love, but a halfwit wilfully innate and cognate to hate. Paying heed to words written with the elusive love we seek, I see the distinction from consent and cause. Trudging through Satan’s cesspit with consent from whom we cannot blame for causing the sewage in which we wade.

I know there is to do, but what to do, how to do, where to do and when. Knowing why is too little to do by. Answers are only information and information is worthless until actions are born. A gift unappreciated lies stagnant and not used. A gift gratefully received produces infectious joy.

Xanadu; quintessence of the words,
Of beauty to our ears.
Not love of mind nor fanciful sight,
Nor tenacity of breath of those who might,
Speak provocation of effusive tears.

Diversification of those whose diction,
Expansion was sought imploringly,
Displayed meek thirst,
For knowledge first;
They’ll be blessedly beset linguistically.

Longing rills of liquefied utterance,
Reverberating waves aplenty,
Bellowing whispers loud,
Heard from within a shroud,
Giving rise to a barrel never empty.

Roaring murmurs of ripples in thousands
Cascading to oceans below,
A fast falling downward demise,
Sounding white truth and that of black lies,
Of onomatopoeic H2O.

Not stringent is the string of letters,
Lax are the words to be strung.
Not sequentially,
But dulcetly,
Outward beauty will be rung.

With a patterned strike using one’s cerebella Mallet
On the gong of one’s cerebral stock,
Eloquence imbues,
The mind your ears use,
Curtailing the perpetual tick tock – tick tock.

Facile masks circle that face,
Consuming as they revolve.
Filched is elation,
Taken is creation.
Yet knowing the inevitable resolve.

The sky, glowing orange and pink,
Screened by towers and walls around.
Ev’ning birds sound happy, I think.
But traffic drowns their sweet sound.

Grass land of bright sumptuous green,
Encompassing scattered waste and debris.
Here happy children have once been,
But now the air sounds empty.

Green land with liquid crystal rills,
Tarnished with cacoph’ny and waste,
Of humanity’s sinful wills,
Not conforming to a life so chaste.
Diamond tears, upon earth they fall
Until banished from earth for all.

Be there nothing in that sky of yours,
That of your own making,
No colour, matter, wind nor force.
Just emptiness beyond that battered cliff,
Beaten by the sea from one,
With kites and creams to the other.
Such contrasting torment of ‘could but isn’t’,
As the black, crimson sky bleeds over;
Yet is still a waste expanse,
For black or crimson, kites or birds,
Wind or wonder, nothing’s heard.
Where loneliness haunts itself,
Imbued with its own solitary ambience,
Which companioning heart beats would dilute.
Opacity equates to naught.

Fashion: a route for evil through peer pressure,
Capitalism survives,
But to the poor’s detriment.
Shallow fascias causing positive fallacies among the young,
Not yet wise to see the lies in disrespect of life’s worth.

Actions; the result of Misguidance.
Misguidance serving as a detraction.
From the original intention,
Being a blissful destination,
Curtailed by selfish manifestation.

Imbued by he; the wicked one,
Unable to see his own futility,
For all his destruction will be undone.
The attraction of fame all among the young,
A shortcut in the name of the wicked one,
To hear personal virtues, in a repetitive melody, sung.

But is, in actual fact, a bypass to facile wealth,
With virtues slackened to result in unrighteous health.
The most vicious attack but done so in stealth.
Infiltrate minds to manipulate thought;
Pulling the strings, of you puppets, taut.

Puppets we may be, but with minds of our own.
Misguided we’ve been but we’ll never lose tone.
We push on and on and achieve greatness on the way.
Perpetually, we strive to find our way.
To the original destination,
Of love’s manifestation,
Of a blissful intention,
After Satan’s annihilation.

While grating gusts and gales of Winter’s winds
Mourn with a deaf’ning dirge till Spring begins,
Intently and contentiously they’ll look
For that moral compass found in the book
of such lovingly constructed wording
Of whose heart’s thoughts in our minds are painting
Their reflection to grow within our hearts;
Like wisdom to child, their parent imparts.
He transcends any cultural chasm
To reach all hearts before his phantasm.
Clarity of faith by which we can walk
Decanting the love but keeping the cork
As a stopper to stop the willing draining
To those wilfully closed eyes rejecting.

The burring and whirring takes us to task
In battle, futile for the facile mask;
The mask to mask the vacuous content
With razzle-dazzle detracting repent.
Low weaponry the opposition draws
On his ***, so preys on our many flaws.
The things at which he cannot be the best,
Hopeless to attempt, so drags down the rest.
The strength from these words is for us to draw
To fortify the truth and shroud our flaw
From the eyes and lies of the wicked one;
Weakening us ‘till easily undone.

Never must we, so never shall we yield
Lest we gamble that love that we all wield.
The love that is him, not given by whim,
Can and will be found in amongst this din
Of the towns and cities keeping alive
The corrupt, capital world of the lies.
Dangling the bogus carrot of pleasure;
Misdirecting us all from the treasure
Of something more real spiritually
than anything that’s found posthumously.

For when time grows old, all corners explored,
All things have been sold and all has been bought.
When all has been said and all has been done
With nothing unpainted, ev’rything sung,
All’s been invented, no lines left to write,
No mountain to climb, no evil to fight,
No path left untried, no words left to talk,
No niche unoccupied, no roads to walk.
To surpass anything, where is the hope?
Upon past achievements we will still dote.

All religions, legions and ligaments
Feel full force of their own eradicant.
Once blinded by their own faithful binding
They’ll begin to prove its own unwinding.
Then reluctant eyes open up to see
Their stubbornness was based on fallacy.
By this time now all chances will be spent.
Choices made by those who will now regret
Not seeing what’s evident for all sight
But those whose hearts and eyes they kept shut tight.
Regret will abound for the truth not found.
Eternity in Hades and the ground
Is the only future for the many
Who chase that carrot dangling for jenny.

Ambiguity of a single word
Begs contextual study of the broad.
Only then can a justification
Substantiate their stubborn rejection.
What will fill the void where once there was truth?
Ostensibly only eternal ruth,
Curtailed by the one whose ultimatum
Can be found in that book of verbatim.
The book written to escape the scapegrace
Our only grace and our only solace.

Those grating gusts part, exposing a path
A path enough wide for many a rath,
But the wind which once blew for all idols
Has changed its direction toward idylls.
Softly but certainly the air makes change.
With grating now gone, systems rearrange.
Where one and one equal much more than two,
Longer is forever if it’s just you.
Love is the only, the all, and ever,
The one currency we’ll grow together.

Amen.

This civilisation I do lament,
For what was intended I cannot see,
All banks and buildings from fields of cement,
We can’t turn back from what we know to be.

Another way seen distant in the mist,
From a distance, copy it we cannot.
Never, before we are within its midst,
Will we look back and see what we forgot.

Look back we will but not with longing eyes,
We know the mistake of the wife of Lott.
With knowledge we’ll look back and realise,
Exactly what we had, and now what we’ve got.

Hist’ry of  humanity is replete,
With lessons, from times of old, of others,
From whose misdemeanour caused our retreat,
Learn willingly and see our endeavours.

Ardent hist’ry has Ipswich town,
Where burning the last witch went down,
And was home to the Tudor crown.
Now dull embers.

A maritime town when trade stops.
Now clogged up and rife with pound shops.
Abound's the smell of coughed up hops
from its members.

A cultural scene cloaked in fog
of Friday night’s back ally snog,
or in the park where ev’n the dog
Treads carefully.

Shop workers and call centre staff
Aiming short sighted but to laugh,
smiling only for the photograph,
Pose cheerfully.

All the things you call me,
I admit, I have once been.
Any pain you feel for me,
Is all of my own doing.

All my complaisance,
My aggression; Suffering long,
I Know now, the cause;
Everything that was wrong.

Self righteousness over modesty.
Of myself, a forceful expounder.
Eminence devoid of morality.
To be refined and not to flounder.

Humble and quiet humility;
Beautiful virtues of ones own critique.
Sowing personal strength of longevity,
Ones gallantry, others may seek.

I am sleepless and tormented by the contrast and volume
of hopes against fears.
So many of them.
Jagged lines and shapes jousting and scraping my inner psyche
of rich and intense colour pixelated and grainy
as is the web of events causing such fears
In contrast with the soft, yet sinister hopes looming in the future’s unseen

My limbs are a nuisance.
The physicality of their forms bring discomfort
Caused by imperfection of placement.
Whether imperfect, or perfect a form
firing fallacies neurologically implies imperfection.

Ambiguity of the source aids continuation of the problem.
Tears and years passing by and these shapes may change
and might even rearrange the thoughts of fears
Though the shapes volume grows
and the lines scrape and stab with ferocity and frequency.

Things aren’t entirely smooth.
This is the best that we can do.
As we are able to move,
Just as they do on TV,
With the help of words on cd.
I don’t stop though I should.
Oh it pains to be that good.
And the pain’s from watching TV.
It placates with songs on CD.
But is still from such falsehood.

My Pen nonchalantly flows its ink,
Over the empty lines; thirsty.
Thirsty for epigrammatic language.
The spoken line’s elisions and falsifications,
Predispose propensities,
And mutate the prevailing attitude,
Towards us, our future,
Not others or theirs.

Such is the mirror of a tomorrow
That makes now’s theft no more than a borrow.
Myriad borrows without reflection
Gybe the sailor’s course beyond correction.
Sailing on the waves of a reworking.
Reinforcing winter’s wind’s inflection
To fill the world with a dire infection.
Yesterday left to cruel sorrow.
Winter prevails for tomorrow.

The fallen guide the vacuous minded.
They follow to their destiny of dead.
In eternity of eternal sleep
Blind to the reward they shall never reap.
Perpendicularly prevailing for
Fighting back with righteousness they shall keep
Until victorious they take the leap
To the promise that has been read
By those remaining sound minded.

Such was the mirror of that yesterday
That cleans the slate thereafter, ev’ryday.
Their dirges sound hollow when spring is here.
They’ll never return lest we forget fear.
We learn to reflect the heart of the all.
No more need we shed a single sad tear
For this, it is written, he will forswear.
Embrace love for there’s no other way,
As it will prevail forever and a day.

Nothing more can be done,
Yet so much I want to do.
Nothing more must be done,
That’s not what a Son would do.
Nothing more will be done,
So much I want to say to you.
Everything is left undone.
But the one thing I didn’t want to do,
Was say good bye to you.

What is death, but a life’s futility?
Futility of truth beyond the lie.

The relief of spring’s first golden sorrow
beats down on my brow rousing my heart’s warmth
enlightening love by way of what’s lost.

He, whose glistening, shimmering glimmers
of hope seem to stutter on to no end,
Waits for for any such little late effort
in such slender threads to deign a blessing.
A deal only to pass after the part
on ones part comes to pass.

Although buoyancy of hope
Ebbing away,
Seems to foretell of total dissipation,
Icicles lit by the blue moon
Nonchalantly morph into stalagmites
Soaked in the light more golden than the sun’s.

Shadows of hope hang behind slender threads
That the equation can be crafted;
Pulling strings to put in our place
contributions mirroring our own.

Your behaviour has no flavour;
Only spurious temerity.
Your false strength helps you ride this length,
While your detriment is left with me.
Riding away from your troubles,
And away from your strife,
Leaving behind your woes,
But abandoning your life.
My stomach now sick with your city fumes,
You’ve silently emitted and filled these rooms,
For your so called friends;
Perpetuating confidence in excess,
To blindly inhale,
Until their last breath.

Fleshy protuberances,
To fill the void of virtues,
Of the unvirtuous,
And ******-minded contentious.

Voluptuous caverns,
As substitutions for,
A wealth of strength,
Of personally refined law.

Praying on others temptations;
Using their weaknesses,
Since ones’ own strengths,
Leave only deficits.

Passive aggression,
Requires a little thought,
Without any passion,
On a plate, her demands are brought.

A quiet emotion unexplained.

Absorbed, not observed.

Yet dictates reactions;

Crafting the prevailing mood.

Again dictating reactions,

Perpetuating the cycle,

Be it downwards or upwards,

Vicious or enlightening.

Continue it will, however it may go.

Who so deems it right or wrong?

Whom can change its course.

I am the fear you feel day in, day out.
I am the unknown worry that consumes you.
I am everywhere but you don’t see me.
I made you forget to turn off the iron.
I am the smoke in your children’s lungs.
I am the debt in your bank account.
I am the drink calling your name.
I draw on your flaws to attack your hope.
I compress compassion and squeeze your heart.
I show lies to the eyes in need of truth.
I starve hungry hearts.
I get great pleasure from watching you writhe.
I loudly laugh at your pain so he can hear.

Your reactions feed my will.
Your futility is mimicry of mine.
Your ostracisation is by my wedge.
Your failure is of best intentions, but in my world.
Your lack of hatred makes me hate you.
You don’t know who I am. I don’t care who you are.

Black crimson bleeds over the cold grey,
Licking at the dust; a slow trickle to the iron grate,
Down and further down into society’s waste,
Ironic; its gravely detrimental cause becoming its destination.
Thus leaving an ugly depiction of this world’s affects,
On the poor, the lonely and the vulnerable.
Left to implant fear of consequence to that of rejection.
Ugly is the truth, though the concept contrary,
For it’s just what we seek as we live.
Is it what we find as we die?
And so the result of the effects of this world,
Return to the contemptible.

Words will always retain their power.
Words are for the means to meaning,
And for those who will listen;
The enunciation of truth.
Once spoken they’re said.
Words will never die,
For behind our words is an idea.
An idea of a possibility.
To transpire or sometimes not.
This notion shall never cease.
We cannot **** ideas,
And so we cannot **** the words with which to convey them.
Words are the tools by which we can use,
The most powerful weapon known to man;
The blade of truth,
Effortlessly cutting through a world of lies.
A brush of reality,
To effortlessly paint over a world of falsehood,
And so discerning the truth as truth and lies as lies.
A scale of lies and a scale of truth.
From the darkest of black to the brightest of white,
But words will never change their colours.
Words will always retain their power.

Cool, dark steely shade surrounds elegant
icicles quietly shone upon by,
The quiet moon through the crisp, clear night air.
And so water does flow escaping the
white stillness, channelled by the glassy flakes,
Encroaching its misty path

A lady of infectious smiles,
My heart she has lured with her beautiful wiles.
My thoughts are engaged, only for her;
Never to be vacant for anyone lesser.

Perfect silk darkness neatly flows from her bright sky,
Encompassing a porcelain complexion.
Never before and never again, to any human eye,
Will such contrast warrant such fervent affection.

Fanciful love is so easy from afar.
Closer it’s stronger yet more fragile.
The longer it’s left and the further we are,
The more I am tempted to beguile.

What is this wall which keeps stopping me?
Stopping me going forth into our waking.
Fear of love’s rejection, no more must it be,
Holding me back from our making.

This is not, confused with ambiguity,
A time to be weak and passive.
The obstacles in my way may be small,
But inner strength needed is massive.

So gently I went cautiously forth,
Knowing just to where I was heading,
But blinded by my dreams I continued,
Since these dreams I’d laid as my bedding.

So blinded, go forth I did to our making,
Only to find it was in fact our breaking.
True colours I saw and the colours I hated,
For they were not of the spectrum for which my breath was bated.

She; the master of bogus supplication;
As lovely as can be.
A masked bullet for love’s annihilation.
A let down for eternity.

An excessive and extensive infatuation,
Blown blustery out of all control,
Disfigured from all proportion.
In my refined plan; an untidy hole.?Two contrasting poles I loved so fervently,
For they left the midst a clear canvas,
On which I painted with my mind, elegance and beauty,
Paint is not truth as truth is not this.

I put this canvas away to be hid,
Out of sight, out of mind and ring true that did.
Not one piece of me wants to see her,
When every piece of me wants to find her.

By my mind’s fabrication and my heart’s fallacy;
I don’t know what in her I saw.
With realisation of discord subliminally,
When I look now I see it no more.

Now she’s no more,
And by my choice she’ll stay that way.
But will I always leave open this door,
And hope that she stays away?

Closer an eventuality horizon looms.
Darkness beheld, as light it consumes.
Though light will prevail victorious simplicity,
With the concise demise of gratuitous bureaucracy.

*(An Event Horizon is the orbit of a Black Hole beyond which the gravitational pull becomes too strong for even light to escape.  Also known as The Point of No Return.)

The whole of everywhere and all that is in it,
An astronomical clock with infinite minutes.
A number of variables from which we can choose,
Liberty of action but limited to use.

Tick the box for the incompetent party,
You wish to fill the void,
Fill it with bureaucracy; needless and ineffective.
To replace what we’ve destroyed.

“God save the Queen”,
For what’s to replace her?
Praise her power and majesty.
As a substitute saviour.

As grand as we make them,
Failure, although we may give rise.
Too far left or too far right,
We will ensure their demise.

As the world will fight,
Over power and control,
It oscillates between us,
And those who seemingly rule.

Magna Carta’s text; merely a width,
Returning control back to the side,
From where apparently taken,
But not where it hides.

A clock’s winding continuation,
missed by the clocksmith’s hand.
Or the battery’s replacement,
Not afforded within one’s band.

Prevailing randomness would make way,
For chaos, no order and instability.
Although from this the whole of everywhere did begin,
Its retraction is caused by misuse of our liberty.

Suffused with sweet sound
Are the dulcet trees of spring.
From where do they resound?
How so do they sing?

I’m effusively bellowing inside.
Internally drowning from within,
Tears no longer mine but hers.
For the death of whom I’m crying.

Icicles in the moonlight now seem colder to me.
Cold yet they still warm my heart.
Sights of frost will certainly,
Make shudder, lovers apart.

Those who have lost are in torment temporary;
Torment which distance brings.
If only they knew they would be again,
No significance would there be for rings.

She choreographed a dance as old as time,
Men moved to her demands.
Butting and rutting for her attention they crave,
With expectations of fanciful chance.

Never will it be, for her intention is to self satisfy.
Dangling the bogus carrot of possible love,
In front of their antlers, only to turn away,
As soon as she deems it enough.

But wherein she choreographs, and that with which she conducts,
Plays success but only for short,
Since consumption of razzle dazzle, done so for long enough,
Will guarantee her life be cut short.

Knowledge of this is information on which to act.
Act we can, but listen with open ears and mind she will not.
And so she brings us to the sorrowful point,
Although temporary, bare this torment I cannot.

Such a cruel and foreseeable demise predicted by all.
Foresee it she could not since blinded by her origin,
Of facile masks which paved her the way,
And follow with closed eyes she did, to her ending.

On such innocence will the masks master play.
Naivety and kind willingness he will hunt,
For the trustworthy targets, easy to accumulate,
Using pornia to distract as males bunt.

Ardent hist’ry has Ipswich town,
Where burning the last witch went down,
And was home to the Tudor crown.
Now dull embers.

A maritime town when trade stops.
Now clogged up and rife with pound shops.
Abound's the smell of coughed up hops
from its members.

Shop workers and call centre staff
Aiming short sighted but to laugh,
smiling only for the photograph,
Pose cheerfully.

A cultural scene cloaked in fog
of Friday night’s back ally snog,
or in the park where ev’n the dog
Treads carefully.

As gazing over industrial land,
Futile are my thoughts.
Sights seen with knowing eyes,
Imbue with mocking taunts.

How can we be here amongst all this,
When not so long ago was intended bliss?
Knowledge so elegant and so beautiful,
Offers hope yet is not irrefutable.

Here, trapped within this stranglehold,
Where anger is but a waste,
Religion here, democracy there,
Into what must we sublimate?

From the mount, the answers have been delivered,
And this is what we must do.
Simplicity shrouds the bureaucracy of old,
And makes way for an eternal new.

Walk by faith, not by sight,
For this perilous road of tempestuous might,
Is not all it seems.  It’s destination; truth.
Not that of dreams, but that with proof.

But most will not fulfil,
For not meek are they.
Concrete self-righteousness paves,
Yet does not lead the way.

Infinite roads down which to walk,
No signs now, just digital talk.
Lest we be watchful, will we become lost.
And I daren’t even think at what cost.

For ages gone by, truth have we pursued,
With razzle-dazzle leading the way.
Men deemed more intelligent than I,
Have still been lead astray.

Close I have been to those I never knew,
At a distance was that chance kept,
But knowing now, that which I do,
Where I’ve cried, now I only wept.

Forces nor you or I can see,
Are present for our observances.
For each and every one of us will be,
delivered from idleness in Hades.

When will it happen? When will it be?
Not one of us who knows.
When distemper’s calamities culminate,
With humanities utmost woes.

With each word of false enthusiasm,
Taken is a piece of me,
Until there are no pieces left,
With which to be.

For each spark of energy,
It surely is a drain,
Leaving me supported,
By dry inner pain.

Venerate opinions influenced by,
A great weight of truth.
Caution of these ideas of mine,
Venerated by youth.

You, to me,
Are unobtainable.
I, to you,
Am most dispensable.

Say it’s sad,
Say it’s horrible,
The fact remains;
You’re adorable.

His herd trudge in binary directions.
Faceless they march to their fraudulent feed
Opposing the one, their ransom, his seed.
False food disguised as noble inflections.

The truth shrouded from all inspections
With frivolity from who need pay heed.
To words of the one, through him that did bleed
As payment for the herd’s imperfections.

Not for them but for him, the one, the all,
For their actions would tarnish his clean name
Should his creation lay under a pall,
His perfection it would only defame.
When he takes a stand, upon him they call
It is written he’ll win the wicked game.

For many chasing jenny, a short shrift
For lack of atonement for losing tone,
Their restitution shan’t come from that throne.
Their heart’s reticence sends love far adrift.

Truth can mend Lucifer’s damage, the rift
In their hearts instilled by stealth from day one.
To hear the word, the onus is their own.
To hear the truth is to receive its gift.

With wisdom, utilise our time we must.
Escape the herd in their binary trudge.
Basing beliefs on knowledge we can trust
They know to do but continue the drudge.
Heads hung with disgust they’ll return to dust
To dust, they he will adjudge.

The canvas currently clean as satin,
Upon which, with their freedom, they may paint
That which their hearts desire, but not to taint
Or tarnish the words before that Latin.

A bastardisation was that Latin,
Wringing and wrangling till the truth grew faint.
Questions unasked as questioner’s constraint
Set in motion the persistent pattern.

Little with distance between are those eyes
Open and receptive to deviate.
Blindly open and blinkered by the lies
For their daily drudge down the wide road, fate.
No hope for what awaits beyond the fires
When they see will it all be but too late?

White; the enemy of individuality.
Sensitive to stain;
So glares any impurity.
The cause of light’s disdain.

A mount of perfection,
For all the unwanted,
Baring intolerable rejection;
Their impurities are vaunted.

Grey; the melancholy shade.
Permanently on the fence.
Sullenness being made.
Prosaicness from whence.

Agnosticism of colour.
No conviction for what it reflects.
With a deficit of vigour.
The reflection of all that detracts.

Black; the absorption of all,
The greed of light.
An entire life’s pall.
The enemy of white.

The face of the deep
The end of all things.
Light’s filcher to reap,
Before any beginnings.

Love is the answer.
Love… is the answer.
Love is always the answer

Love… is the way.
Love is the way.
Always.
Forever.

Sorrow for the world that could have been.
Breathlessness of hope that it may come again.
The second time round we’ll know what not to do.
All I hope is you will be there too.

Impetuosity creates murky waters,
Through which we move, blinded.
Restraining rules allow time through which
We move still sightless, yet reminded.

Let those you love be perfectly themselves,
For one’s own image they must not bless,
Else, the reflection of yourself seen in them,
You’ll love of your own best.

Physical relations we must bestride,
For skipping ahead means missing some.
Prevailing beauty such as yours,
Of you I shall miss none.

Any beauty within my heart is from that,
Which I see, smell, hear, taste and touch,
That of you, by whom I am overwhelmed,
I never deem too much.

Pay heed, More haste, Less speed; no waste.
Only that of time could be argued,
But when we relate with our utmost love,
It is time, but only used.

A mind reflecting virtues past
Not fit for now where they won’t last
To last assumes existence is
He who assumes negates all this:

Cramped.
Boxed in by sides reinforced by world.
Incarcerated by presence perpetuated by will
Continuing loosely, bended by whims.

Walk even slower to get there on time
Turn up the heat till it freezes to ice
Achieve righteousness by committing crime
Reduce to zero by doubling three thrice

People with bombs, raise buildings to the ground
Over your eyes pull the wool of the lies
So you can see better the strident sound
of the plentiful shrill, tormenting cries

At first, you had me,
But then you left me
And then you stayed away.

You didn’t come back.
I had to grow up,
And then you left this day.

You never knew me.
I never knew you,
But I still missed you.

I still miss you.

Unprecedented and infinitely condensed:
Oscillating over the expanse, most deep.
Heat colder than the coldest unknown,
And cold hotter than the hottest of heat.
Overwhelming energy and power squeezed into a finite space,
Fitting for an electron a trillionth divided.
For a singularity, being just one,
Such profuse diversity of one undone.
With gravity hosting the gravitas of God’s venue,
The particle party gets underway,
With conventions abundant.
Brand new guests, unknown to man, arrive,
With the fusion of their making,
Which causes them to be,
Delivered to their waking,
Yet to be governed by He,
Whose government from 1914,
Have been preparing for this time,
When need of judgement is called for,
Judgement will be yours and mine.
Never again will we be,
An infinitely condensed singularity

Did you remember me? How would I know?
I can’t remember what I do not know.
I heard all sorts of pieces about you
But the final picture I couldn’t view
For you said nothing, did nothing, ever.
You went away and now gone forever,
I know you more so than anybody.
Your heart, mind and soul I part embody.
I wish it were sooner. You might have stayed.
Just think, with you I may have even prayed.

An image in my imagination
Is all I have for extrapolation
Of the person you were and yet could be
Guided by love that is given for free.
Free it may be, but not without payment.
The payment is made. Will you be acceptant?

Eye lids of lead,
Dragging my head,
Pulling my thoughts,
Down to my bed.

From day I resign,
Night is now mine,
For my resignation,
From the day time.

Consciousness hid,
To dream I bid,
No effort made,
In leaving my id.

Come light morning,
Forgetful and yawning,
Stretch as I may,
With the day’s future dawning.

To start I consume coffee,
To spark up my energy,
Bright and alert,
I write this allegory.

Learn first we must,
To see beyond the crust,
The underlying truth,
In which we can trust.

Take a step back,
To change tack,
Canter you can’t,
On this old hack.

The horse of a new ride,
You can bestride,
With a heart of new,
So emote with its tide.

Calling your name through the leaves,
The dirt swallows us whole.
Calling your name through the leaves
As the sky smothers us.
A soul no longer breathes.

I don’t know where I’m going.
Lost in a map where words are flowing.
To what end I don’t know.
I’m tired.

I’ve argued, quarrelled, and fought
every last drop of energy.

A person of extreme colourful interest,
A collection of stories they are not.
Neither are they words of experiences best,
But their person is the result of the lot.

If you fabricate fallacies not knowing yourself,
The ostentation will be seen,
For what it is; a facile mask of deficient wealth,
Degenerating virtues, leaving you unclean.

True, internal sadness can be covered,
With self-righteousness and false confidence.
Complacence curtails virtues just discovered,
And ceases growth of your love for kindness.

Learn of yourself and not other’s perceptions.
Your thoughts you are, you’re the colours of your thoughts.
No more displaying portrayed deceptions,
For your true vibrant colours, you will only distort.

Find those virtues of which we all possess.
Find them and show them to everyone around,
Show them you at the height of your very best,
You will receive love abound.