Led by foreign madness, we
- to long expected sleepless graves -
will swim to sink and drown in numbers
weighted down beneath the waves
with nothing left inside but shadows;
no-one left of worth to save

In one end and out the other,
warring with psychotic pride, then
born again and made to suffer
- karmic purpose ill-forgotten -
each new chance at life, a buffer:
"Next time: change..." we chant inside.

Cycles written, history leaking,
sorely weeping through the pores
of growing wombs and offspring born
- another child of soulless form -
to breastfeed lies, imprisoned, shrieking
time again: disease repeating.

Sin ingested (soup for poor)
- the bile of shame and burden lost -
as people starve and lives are sold
and terrors planned to mind control...
and all the while our sickened bodies
hover, rotting, rank with worry.

Toll the bells - it's time to breathe
and **** this horror from our conscience;
steer ourselves towards a pardon,
pave the way, resume our garden
seeding spirit, heart, and mind
with growth to bloom for one last time
or we, the people, incarnating,
won't survive beyond our mating.

.

Here lies a poem,
once a thing of beauty  
flowing with love and desire,
inspired by affectionate dreams,
adored by many for the feelings
it contained for another within,
now nothing more than
irrelevant thoughts and words,
lifeless phrases and stanzas,
weakened and aging verses of
mid-sentence fractures
overtaken by youthfulness
as it seeps deeply
into the void . . . forgotten

Here lies a poem
that is far too old
for its own good

"It's only a poem,
Dont read so much into it."
      
             Dedpoet