the spoils of ego
have created the vile
and the grasps of men's malevolence
will raise the hairs on the fallen arm
the snaking graze bringing diaphragms to a chill
and the eye of lost men reflecting to the churning sky
brimming with echos of lost contraptions in time
the pockets of dream viewers upon heart's decline
and the whisper of one final, sweet bliss
the clamor of doubt sunk like wounded icicles
the gleam of one's bone under lampshade glow
and the lingering touch of medallion thrones
the greed of man washes over ashore
upon the silhouetted fingers of children tomorrow
and the affection of what's promised will wander
soon to the forages of tabooed swelling yonder
simmering in the ashes broken into fragments
eroded into sands of time to slip through palms
and as the day spin on its axis
twisting men's gaze to crunch into manifesting feats
to brink a think that they must all abide
to the fists of iron and crunch of another bone
how they dare treat another soul
in such fruitless fashion
and ambition lacking in direction
their virtues of moral must stand on a compass
without it, they cease to be
pinned to a brick
because their heads are too thick
and don't for a second think
that they are able to keep
the walls fortified, for it too will sink
and they shall fall to their knees
if they refuse to listen
and keep their shiny egos
shaved to a comfortable narrow