Society’s decorum is tissue thin
still it’s imagined to be miles thick
those rationalities that try to assure
the animals are fully secured

those appetites for flesh and much more
******* pretended to be deplored
demands a day to be released
have its way to freely feed

wriggling in masses against the walls
appetites questing to be observed
still the pundits will avow
nothing is there as they indulge

staid purity asks the world to be contrite
turn from the darkness to the right
observe the decorum while in gods’ eyes
while finding depravity outside of the light.

© 2020. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20200112.

May the gods notice you
this is the crux of a curse
removing the anonymity
those blessings of obscurity

now the heavens and the hells
invite excursions at the risk
of getting what’s been asked
the unforeseen is a chance

the joke is at your expense
a bill extended at the end
even as the blessings flow
calamity waits to unfold

visibility comes with a price
the embolden become contrite
too much of a good thing
removes the glamour of the bling.

© 2020. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20200111.

The distance of a single inch
is the same as miles bewitched
by the magic that separates
one from another’s intimates

that void defined by purity
approved by society
those pesky ethics that conflict
with the drives of the itch

those urges most consider base
put in the closet of the id
propagate nonetheless
as the core of humaneness

these desires are thus denied
even as the lust multiplies
with no outlet to transcend
the distance of a single inch.

© 2020. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20200110.

If the path returned again
to the source of all things
that time before the now
would I have the strength to go on?

if present knowledge was retained
it's very likely I'd go insane
knowing pains that were to come
if life was to be foretold

one could argue my sanity
is already frayed at the ends
to ask another turn through the mire
would tap the well until it's dry

I'll choose to continue through
allow the past to keep its own
while the future is clearly fraught
at least the vision hides from thought.

© 2020. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20200109.

The towers are centuries tall
built by hand, block by block
perch on the cliffs equally deep
ready for wayward miscreants

more than souls are there enclosed
also power sits on the throne
ruling masses with a hand
ready with the whip to lash

this status-quo is nearly spent
when multitudes leap to deaths
leaving for the netherrealms
away from dogma's weary quest

holding supplicants in crumbling cells
with doors wide open to prisoners
those who seek to escape
will leave the towers in their wake.

© 2020. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20200108.

If my feelings are just that
nothing more than illusion’s cast
please explain reality
substance based on other’s creeds

the logic there is surely based
on foundations much the same
except the glamour has set
believing this surety is the best

dissuasion becomes the coin
worth nothing if truth be told
spent to buy assurance nonetheless
consider laughter at this jest

if lives were not at risk
****** while pundits persist
to insist that feelings matter not
when they are all I’ve really got.

© 2020. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20200107.

The tallest of barriers
and deepest of moats
restrict the masses
from coming too close

these leading impediments
imposed on the world
fail when the deviants
slip through the holes

the sirens of warning
bells that declare
the need to stay clear
don’t pose the scare

instead friends will find
their way to your side
regardless of walls
travelers come to the cause.

© 2020. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20200106.