The curtain of Oz has been lifted!
The shadow pulls strings
perfectly supreme!
Free will is dead and so are the Gods!
Arise! Arise!
Raise cries for the paupers demise!
Liberty and livelihood are crucified!
Even the Age of Eden was forsaken
in the name of sacred inebriation!
To the streets! To the streets!
Do not cease the effigies for peace!
From the ground
to the mouth,
through the heart
to the brain
let us give birth to the soul of the Earth
let the age of lost wisdom reign again

There are 2 kinds of pain.
The first is the meagre feeling of being hurt.
The second is sacred.
It kills you with perfect articulation.
It decimates all of your foundations.
It makes the air stand still
and ***** white noise into the room.
It provides contrast
to the fruits of isolation.
It is the mistress of evolution.
It is symbiosis for conquerors,
for on the other side of that kind of pain
are all things worth dying for.
It’s the strength of survivors;
The breath of the resurrected

If you have yet to be killed.
If you are stagnant in your ambitions.
If you don’t even know, what you don’t know,
You are yet to fight your finest hour

The scholars say;
all scorched green land
soon grows back
twice as grand.
Well if thats the truth of it
my lover foiled her own ****** plan
it just takes a little rain
on a red-dawn day
to sprout into the fray again.

All fickle friends decay
when the shot at redemption
is just a days grace away
they leave behind what should be said
within the prisons inside their heads

The manic depressive
does not believe
in the holy-light of love
if his brain can not conceive
but each day that he survives
is one day closer
to what his heart contrives

The proud atheist derides
with a rational mind
all priests demise,
but my dear friend,
if you think that silence
is waiting around the bend,
you will soon contend
that dark, stark trend
when your mind lends
all futile shields to fend.
You’ll see your spite
split betwixt delight
that which all knowing monks commend
and which your soul will soon amend;
that Death is not the end

I saw two silhouettes
standing oblique
in the dark mystique
of a long dead street.

With my path blocked
from the light beyond
I was denied the prize
from whence life absconds.

Were they lovers or threats?
Or jesters and priests?
As they turned astray to face me
With eyes of charcoal gold
They undressed their bones
to bare the holes
within the prisons of their souls.

Tattooed upon these wounds
were promises forged too soon
Shattered by the witness
of the ever weeping moon,

I saw ones fate soon marooned
with great fortune entombed in doom.
Although courageous by nature,
Folly is the prisoner of passion

The second wore simple linens,
and espoused poetic virtues
He spoke of poets long since dead
but said you can reach them if you choose.

As I drew closer to these phantoms
I spied familiar faces
One was young and one was old
They spoke of conquests long foretold

One spoke of ******,
The other spoke for Buddha,
both said life is what you make it,
Tho, when I gazed into this mirror
I was neither dejected nor elated

Take heed to the deafening scream
of silence echoing within the chasm of your soul.
If your muse chooses you
use it’s brute truth to fill in the hole.
Just don’t think yourself reckless
when its from poison you flee
only to run to
what calls you
from a banquet of vaccines
within the colour of your dreams.
Take heed,
take heed,
My darling
take heed
of all snarling beasts
that hold festering feasts
when your heart begins to bleed,
Lest you let loose with sick spry
the distinguished disguise
for you damp, saddened eyes

Paradise is the lovechild of courage and pain
but only when the passion
to reinstate pleasure
is birthed by dancing in the rain.
For all tenacious dreamers
serenade the Goddess of Blooming
lest the coldness thats looming
from their soon to be consuming tomb
swiftly seals their doom.
Yet when the Devil prowls the avenues looking for souls to ******
with a life thats deranged
by the day to day charade
of the virtuous ball and chain
maimed around hard, sad truths,
who amongst us can try to deny the pull of
temptation towards false salvation
of all nihilistic avenues of uncouth youth
and the bittersweet fruits of their brutal truth

If you hear the insatiable whispers of your calling
beckoning you forward,
within the dark depths
of sleepless attempts at slumber-
If it keeps you staring up at the ceiling
long past the dawn
with threatening thoughts
which only the pawns of failure spawn-
then use the fuel of the pursuers whom
came before you,
coupled with your own unique integrity,
passion
and drive,
to bring into being that which you cannot go a day without thinking about.
Believe in Yourself
as much
as you believe in your Hell
for You will be dead a long time-
do not dawdle.
Your Muse chooses You
as much as You choose your Muse.
You owe it the nobility of pursuit
in exchange for the simple comfort
which the essence of being offered a way out of meaninglessness direction brings.
(This is the gift all Muses present you with.
It is symbiosis in its most poetic form.)
Likewise,
You cannot prevent your Muse choosing You,
no more than your Muse can prevent
You from not pursuing it
with all the tenacious ambition it deserves.
So love and cherish your Muse as it were your mother,
along with all the hopeful dreams it brings with it.
It chose you for a reason.