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Mar 2019
The cold wind sings its lullaby
At 3 in the morning when no one can hear.
Untold sins bring up fear, a sigh
Released in the midst of sheer
Boldness. This coldness is clear,
Shoulders held up high,
This old soul smolders, endeared,
Behold the source of the flame, revered.
His own bones deteriorating from self hatred, he owns loanable favors.
Devoted to blatant peer pressure, mere pleasure.
He's caged in like a snake
Surrounded, for days, with four sides in a tank
Clouded by judgment as menacing as sharp fangs.
He wonders what may hide beyond the glass pane,
On this side of the storm, ignorance, like thunder, bangs and
Feeble minds plunder in pain as he gasps at the crass bane.
Alas, shame musters and he cries out in pain,
Disdain and frustration make him lose patience and thus, his veins rupture.
His name the grave mutters in vain,
It stutters insanely.
Utter fear engraves itself in the pavement,
Nothing contains it.
Lust favors reprehensible acts and calls them sensible,
Hence his demons savor his knack for evil’s principle.

Lack of remorse caters to the whim of the artist's reactive nature,
Lately, my fate has shown its true color,
Faded, it’s black,
Signed, the Plain painter.
Trapped in his drawings, his anger strapped like a weapon,
Regret has set in, like
Fangs and claws in your skin.
He questions plain and simple
Objectives he made in civil

His brain he fiddles with.
Lately it's made him lose a bit.
Sanity no longer placed in a state of complacent safety.
Erased from the face of history,
He faces the greatest mystery of faith:
How to catch a butterfly when the forceful wind’s against me?
Admittingly, since the distance presented its ill intentions,
I've witnessed the birth of innocence,
In this was, too, repentance.  
Forgiveness became a gift for me not,
But remains prolific and lame as it brings me pain.
These dreams rot,
Bereft of pristine thought.
Increasing in pressure, serene gestures
Spike at extreme measures, pleasing
A sea of  people just before they reach peak level
Of unequal treatment,
Leaving myself behind, so I Hyde
To appease Jekyll's.
Bereavement embezzles delicate meaning,
Eloquence seeping from my pores,
I'll admit treason,
Bring a stiff reason as to why this ship sinks and  
Reap the benefits for a quick season then right back to being cold.

Keep seeing ghosts but startled demons
Retreat with swift, keen intensity and
Quit seeking evil things to finish me.
Since she impeded with insistence
My fealty conceded, senseless.
Real to me was lethal vengeance,
Begging me to rescind interdependence
And purport to bequeath,
the reader,
Evil menace upheaved on the likes
Of people that deceive the needs of feeble grimace,
Steep and oblong is the course
he takes when absconding with illness,
Mental resilience, a reprobate uncommon
To deal with.
Pain reveals his main appeal,
And still they describe it as brilliance.
Chains of steel retain his will
So in ways he refrains from fulfillment.
Deals he's made with the demons he keeps
Rain shame down on this villain.
He channels wakes of chaos toward
The ones who forsake his plea
And help create his prison.
Envision now a spirit free,
But tortured by his angst,
His rhythm separated him from
The music written,
And shakes him in opposition;
Breaks him of his willful mission.
He hesitates to fill his needs,
Until he feeds the greed of millions,
Putrid schemes induce increasing
Feudal dreams of resilience.
This too precedes the illness.
Entropy must be a must, intensity
Proceeds to injure me with intense
A fence between the mentally demented and a sense so keen
Is all that prevents the intelligent fiend
From relevant being in this
Hellish ravine
Filled to the rim with
Malevolent creeds and devilish seeds.
Prevalent deeds of ill means
Seem to instill an immense severance,
Leaning toward eloquence became the relevance seen around this decadent theme, yet,
The elephant in the room repels the elegant dream from being met.
Soon the bells will ring in hell
And too you'll sing of mere regret.
Those who read his tale of screams
Proceed to nail his coffin shut.
He's intrigued when awful things derail and
Sews the things he reaps.
He leaps, morose, to depths below,
Beneath the hell he knows and keeps.
Retreating poses questions close,
While silent rages creep.
His Queen, he hopes, will save him, though,
She'll only know to sleep.
Her beauty meets his eyes in peace,
But haunts him endlessly.

He wonders what she feels and thinks.
Cole Maxwell
Written by
Cole Maxwell  25/M/New Orleans
(25/M/New Orleans)   
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