Count the hours on the clock,
Shifting hands to softly mock,
The nagging tick of mortal flocks,
Atop this fetid, burdened rock

Arranged in dandy rows of twelve,
Nestled firm above the shelves,
They strum a tune for silent crowds,
To dust and grime and hellish clouds

Waiting for its muse to strike,
As if a match or flame alike,
It leaps from hours seeking rhythm,
To seize upon a growing schism

Ringing out, it quells the chime,
Weeping children stand in line,
Dead men all accused of crimes,
Against the grueling pace,
Of time

"These bleeding hands, tis' all you thought,
For now you see,
It's all a sign..."

Closing rifts in hatred can **** a monarchy,
But morale grows to **** it anyhow, you see...

A year can pass like light through glass,
But still you’ll never see...

Fighting scrapes,
Ignoring scars,
Can only make debris,
Of what will never be…

Listen close,
To how they speak,
Of listless killing sprees,
Or whisper to the trees and croon,
Their sacrilegious plea…

Still you haunt these rigid spores,
Of flowered enemies,
But dawn’s wreath may only cometh,
When your heart concedes,
To crooked tales and bloodied gales,
Of life amongst the free…

O, Dear Soletta, have I failed you,
The King is dead,
Now, let us **** the Queen...

With this twisted, little constable you call a friend,
You scatter fro to find the end,
With open spaces left to fill,
Imaginative canvas spills,
Upon the ground in such a way,
To satiate the calming sway of evergreens and frozen pines,
Providing to your humble shrine,
A gift of immortality,
Stripped of its virility,
'Till seven days pass along the channels of your mind,
You'll weep for such affinity...

"The tenacity of man,
Is often diluted by his apathy"

Remove the casket from the shed,
What better day for newly-weds,
Than kissing ashes, free of life,
Or tempting coin for future strife?

Softly shouting flagrant bribes,
To twist the arms of simple brides,
While dancing in a shadowed veil,
Her pennies trudge through muddied trails,
And miles deep, the ocean rails,
Against this failing tide

A hurried lilt,
Controls his voice,
As urchins weep for swift rejoice,
A calming dread removes their choice,
To plead for cases lost to ages,
Toppled by a mound of pages,
Marked by years of silent threats,
Rending truth for standard wages

Struggling to find the innocence in death,
He defies to cut his veins with ****,
While choking on a corporate scheme,
And gambling our hopes and dreams,
Like bars of gold turned smithereens,
Defending lies to break the ties,
Which sow him to this mortal seam,
For good...

"Fear is defined,
As the body and the mind,
Colluding with the imagery,
And hosting,
False dichotomies"

"A joyful man can dream,
But nothing more than steam,
Shall beckon forth,
From the wake of his dismay"

"In a sense, innocence is but a view,
To conjure crimes and let them stew?
Those who breach upon this writ,
Are sentenced to the wall to sit,
Staring down, those little twits,
Searching rooms for lights unlit,
Verily, I spew!
Innocence is nothing new"

Thank you for your wisdom, Ms. Anthrope,
Instilling minds and knotting rope,
Comeuppance yields such narrow scope,
In dealing with a child's mind,
Teach them truths and learn to cope,
With bitterness and aging thoughts,
For blooming eyes,
The world is nought but hope...

For some it may seem rather brash,
To weave the tale of Edmond Thrashe,
Sans his whippings from the lash,
Or lacking proper pomp and dash

But knowing this,
It seems amiss,
To punish crimes,
With stale remiss,
Of facts all gleaned,
From prior bliss,
For timely fates,
Or demon's kiss

Whispering, they calmly nod,
But digits on the hand of God,
Clutching firmly,
Wield the ****,
Of bodies stacked,
And heaped with laud

Weave the strings,
From gilded threats,
Of unpaid dues,
Or ancient debts,
"Steal the night and place your bets,
On Thrashe's bloodied pirouettes,
Of shame!"

Stepping firmly from the plains,
He waltzes stiff as Old Lorraine,
In blackened boots with clamps which strain,
His sickly, dirt-encrusted frame

Bouts of anger curse his throat,
While he staggers towards the boat,
With withered boards, and broken oars,
"****** by visions",
They all wrote

Unfurl the sails,
And set for Wales,
'Tis there he'll "thrash" among the gales!
Of tacit seas,
And growing dread,
While wishing bullets,
To his head,
Which never'll rear,
Their crooked lead,
'Round here...

Render moot your subtleties,
Transfixed on mental cutlery,
Bleeding down,
You crack a frown,
And settle on a memory

Falsehoods ebb the transitory,
Nature of morality,
"To punish deeds adjourned,
You craft commensurate realities"

Merely posing ponderings,
Can not solve your quandaries,
But knowing men,
We owe it then,
To limited capacity,
For cognitive disparity,
Between truth and sincerity

The plots on this chart,
Connect,
To the rhythms and the schisms,
In our hearts,
And dissect,
Variants in apathy,
For forming similarities,
In the molding of these spurnful patterns,
Befitting of your pedigree

My child of obsession,
The regression of progression,
Is an illusion of repression,
In distributing a just oppression,
Savor words, favor herds,
And foster your aggression,
As other ruminations,
Flood your mental acquisition,
Of cultural anatomy...