"bastions" poems
Ambitious bastions always tout
progressive plans when they're about
while within they hide and pout
from novel things that may prove out.
And while inventing goals to follow
their ancients habits hold them hollow
as in vain wary workers wallow
force fed lies and hooks to swallow.
They hunt for those who work past five,
that trudge to work, endure the drive
who will sacrifice their personal live
until ambition can't survive.
Yet if you strive, you're constant told
do not do more, do not be bold
just fill your seat, forever hold
your tongue until you're dead and cold.
To subsist we're forced to hide,
only in others can we confide,
all success pushed to the side
as managers act bona fide.
Since those of meager measure make
hope of meeting metrics fake
interloping leaders take
their toll until hard workers break.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 4:19 PM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
Saint Augustine! well hast thou said,
That of our vices we can frame
A ladder, if we will but tread
Beneath our feet each deed of shame!
All common things, each day’s events,
That with the hour begin and end,
Our pleasures and our discontents,
Are rounds by which we may ascend.
The low desire, the base design,
That makes another’s virtues less;
The revel of the ruddy wine,
And all occasions of excess;
The longing for ignoble things;
The strife for triumph more than truth;
The hardening of the heart, that brings
Irreverence for the dreams of youth;
All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds,
That have their root in thoughts of ill;
Whatever hinders or impedes
The action of the nobler will;—
All these must first be trampled down
Beneath our feet, if we would gain
In the bright fields of fair renown
The right of eminent domain.
We have not wings, we cannot soar;
But we have feet to scale and climb
By slow degrees, by more and more,
The cloudy summits of our time.
The mighty pyramids of stone
That wedge-like cleave the desert airs,
When nearer seen, and better known,
Are but gigantic flights of stairs.
The distant mountains, that uprear
Their solid bastions to the skies,
Are crossed by pathways, that appear
As we to higher levels rise.
The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.
Standing on what too long we bore
With shoulders bent and downcast eyes,
We may discern—unseen before—
A path to higher destinies,
Nor doom the irrevocable Past
As wholly wasted, wholly vain,
If, rising on its wrecks, at last
To something nobler we attain.
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Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
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tempting trappings glow
ghostly garments flow
hair winds bright like sunshine ropes
in my velvet dreams
sequel skin as I grin
stops only if I wait
gentle limbs with no end
churn a heart of clay
within, without
beneath, about
outside in, inside doubt
behind the breach
roundabout route
beyond my reach, right way out
seasoned strangers
inner part dark
destined dangers
apart from spark
flurried passions molt
storied bastions bolt
fire blinds light like fog eats smoke
in my velvet dreams
© Jason Cole
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
JESUS emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob.
The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all.
Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred cows? A mob.
Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob.
The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of one hand and one plan.
Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons have them now.
Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast line from Labrador to Key West? Pigiron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow.
The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples. Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat, watermelons.
The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening...
The mob ... kills or builds ... the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon, Lincoln.
I am born in the mob-I die in the mob-the same goes for you-I don't care who you are.
I cross the sheets of fire in No Man's land for you, my brother-I slip a steel tooth into your throat, you my brother-I die for you and I **** you-It is a twisted and gnarled thing, a crimson wool:
One more arch of stars,
In the night of our mist,
In the night of our tears.
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Music
by Stephen Vincent Benet
My friend went to the piano; spun the stool
A little higher; left his pipe to cool;
Picked up a fat green volume from the chest;
And propped it open.
Whitely without rest,
His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords,
. . . And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes,
Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare,
An army stormed the bastions of the air!
Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch,
Marching together as the lightnings march,
And swift as storm-clouds. Brazen helms and cars
Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars
Above the screaming horns. In state they passed,
Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast-
Rending the darkness like a leaping knife,
The flame, the noble pageant of our life!
The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture
To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure;
Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns,
And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs;
That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain,
From the loose net of words to deeds again
And to all courage! Perilous and sharp
The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp!
. . . And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men,
"How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.
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Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year
between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on
the great arches and naves and little whimsical
corners of the Churches of Northern France--Brr-rr!
I'm glad you're a dead man, William Morris, I'm glad
you're down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory
instead of a living man--I'm glad you're gone.
You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the
shape of those stones piled and carved for you to
dream over and wonder because workmen got joy
of life into them,
Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and
praying, and putting their songs and prayers into
the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones
and gargoyles--all their children and kisses of
women and wheat and roses growing.
I say, William Morris, I'm glad you're gone, I'm glad
you're a dead man.
Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between
Brussels and Paris.
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At Heaven’s window I knelt to pray what do you say when you are dwarfed by Christendom’s vast portal
What cries from hearts of the faithful in anguished burdened prayer they assailed such Holy veneration
Common tongues caught up in awe and adoration found oratory’s fount how they created an unequaled
Spell it clung to holy symbols and pictures that hung on the walls it tore away time itself revealed the
Secret mystery of holiness’s true heart and meaning the sky strained to carry the weight of words so
Profound any and all armies would fall before their mastery to question one’s self at such depths would
Make you defenseless to all obligations you crossed grandeurs stronghold you intervened no less into
Matters that only prophets are obliged to discuss you have fashioned with words great bastions to
Supersede they mock the infidelity and foolishness of many kingdoms Royalty is not just to wear fine
Robes but to center the mind on those richest of finds and then return to mankind and spread them as
Star dust in the lowly places and see the birth of equality and liberty flourish from the lowest to the
Highest that honors not one but all lead at all points root out ignorance that is the cause of all shame
With words that are akin to the words that created worlds this is what you are caught up in there is no
Time for idleness go and spread this word to the four corners of man’s domain we are heroes yet made
By the very words that are possessed and won at altars the planks of mortals that build a stairway to
Glory the earth yearns and dies while you tarry the breach long ago in Eden now the dream is to be
Fulfilled by holy men and women strong enough to face this most demanding challenge forget self catch
Fire with holy zeal burn only for others the world will change from carnage to gifts that bestow
Abundant Life we have never lived in a world that we could make by surrendering our dreams for stellar
exploits
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
I hope the supple touch
Of all the women I have ever loved
Cascades like rain
Over every inch of this Earth’s terrain
Let the sunrise kiss from her crescent lips
Chase away the nights gangly grip
Turning barren fields
To blooming bastions
Of roots and seeds, nurtured into
The smile underneath a weeping willow tree
Raise the bones of change
From their dusty graves of grief
Discard your flesh and,
Bare to me only what lies beneath
Jul 2, 2021
Jul 2, 2021 at 11:06 PM UTC
Dear Universe,
Bless the poet's and their pearls of pain,
Steel them, so they may return to write again.
Bless thier jewel encrusted crowns of thought.
that every delicate word of verse is caught.
Let them pour out their soulful words
to transfuse our bleeding hearts.
Scrolling pages to guide us
through our darkest dark.
Lighting our highest joys
and deepest passions,
May we always preserve
these sacred bastions
May the poets never truly heal or break,
nor stop thier cries;
lest their flowing rivers of verse run dry.
That we may ever bathe ourselves
in rivers of consolation and joy
sending empathy through thoughts
of comfort and care,
to knit us closer in understanding
through words
in universal prayer.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
I sit on the seat of a silent hill, watching hope stripped bare
Like tender flesh ripped from the bone. Where do I go from here?
The words in this world, are poisoned with pain.
Even the ink on this wrinkled page decays, like
Receding waterways that turn rivers
Into mass graves. Every frontier turns to a last bastion.
No decadence can dress the dead. Sunken souls
Weighed down by boots of lead. Work and worship.
Open plains become a purgatory for the horseless.
Jun 25, 2021
Jun 25, 2021 at 11:30 PM UTC
Thinking back to Thomas creek and sneaking a peak at the freaky little tweaker
in blown out sneakers a toothless mistress second guessing ******
thrift dressed house guest ******* up my speakers blown out woofer
wolfing down dinner mad slurping curry a beginner at twister
her sister, disaster, got caught ******* the Doberman.. unable to find sobriety
got gang ***** at the sorority doing an impression of Brad Dougherty
shoes to tall falling all wobbly knees knocking hostilely like a rasta in Montgomery
racially outcast Big Boi with a skin tare lash with passion unfashionable bastions
with rashes wear red sashes like Communist fascists I‘m a pacifist with a speeding fist
ready to dis any resistor to this transistor radio I eat filet-minion with boxers on
my mind be gone, like, no one’s home and this body roams all alone
with a ***** I’m a stoner, a postponer, ***** donor, out on loan
bought and paid for, caught with a lawnmower, impersonating a horn blower
like I was Gillespie at the Filmore, or Apollo theatre as a greater Walmart style
wearing a wife beater, not a reader, sort of a ******* not like Kim, more like
a mosquit-er drinking blood like it’s from a hummingbird feeder.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
there is a glacier
partially concealed
melting from a climactic
climate shift revealing a
reality congealed by revolt
rebels burdened with
a philosophy that
elevates humanity
insisting we will not grovel
before a vain messiah
espousing erroneous
iterations of ideology
will the human race permit
the iceberg to dissolve
as vapid reformist
rhetoric inundates our
political consciousness with
pragmatic progressivism
or will we rise in resistance
with the radicals
fists clenched in protest and
hands outstretched to one
another rather than
lifted high in praise to a savior as we
witness the glacier solidify once more
as CO2 perforates our atmosphere
with heady highs and noxious toxins
will we succumb like dumbfounded
addicts intoxicated by inoculation
consuming the opiated semantics
of charismatic personas or will we
challenge the corrupt
with our wits about us
facing the sobering corporate
corporeality with the pride
of lions facing a den of thieves
abandon the chosen champion
of the vanguard party
we stand hand-in-hand
7 billion
sisters and brothers
in an anthemic chorus of
solidarity that shakes the
bastions of the enthroned
with the resounding shouts of
perseverance in our
non-compliant defiance
our manifestos are written
in the blood sweat and tears
we've shed for this
dream deferred
and we will not be the
silent majority anymore
the masque of anarchy
is ours to share
will we wear its visage
or will hell freeze over
before we choose
freedom
over happiness
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
INTO the gulf and the pit of the dark night, the cold night, there is a man goes into the dark and the cold and when he comes back to his people he brings fire in his hands and they remember him in the years afterward as the fire bringer-they remember or forget-the man whose head kept singing to the want of his home, the want of his people.
For this man there is no name thought of-he has broken from jungles and the old oxen and the old wagons-circled the earth with ships-belted the earth with steel-swung with wings and a drumming motor in the high blue sky-shot his words on a wireless way through shattering sea storms:-out from the night and out from the jungles his head keeps singing-there is no road for him but on and on.
Against the sea bastions and the land bastions, against the great air pockets of stars and atoms, he points a finger, finds a release clutch, touches a button no man knew before.
The soldier with a smoking gun and a gas mask-the workshop man under the smokestacks and the blueprints-these two are brothers of the handshake never forgotten-for these two we give the salt tears of our eyes, the salute of red roses, the flame-won scarlet of poppies.
For the soldier who gives all, for the workshop man who gives all, for these the red bar is on the flag-the red bar is the heart's-blood of the mother who gave him, the land that gave him.
The gray foam and the great wheels of war go by and take all-and the years give mist and ashes-and our feet stand at these, the memory places of the known and the unknown, and our hands give a flame-won poppy-our hands touch the red bar of a flag for the sake of those who gave-and gave all.
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An Easter message
At Heaven’s window I knelt to pray what do you say when you are dwarfed by Christendom’s vast portal
What cries from hearts of the faithful in anguished burdened prayer they assailed such Holy veneration
Common tongues caught up in awe and adoration found oratory’s fount how they created an unequaled
Spell it clung to holy symbols and pictures that hung on the walls it tore away time itself revealed the
Secret mystery of holiness’s true heart and meaning the sky strained to carry the weight of words so
Profound any and all armies would fall before their mastery to question one’s self at such depths would
Make you defenseless to all obligations you crossed grandeurs stronghold you intervened no less into
Matters that only prophets are obliged to discuss you have fashioned with words great bastions to
Supersede they mock the infidelity and foolishness of many kingdoms Royalty is not just to wear fine
Robes but to center the mind on those richest of finds and then return to mankind and spread them as
Star dust in the lowly places and see the birth of equality and liberty flourish from the lowest to the
Highest that honors not one but all lead at all points root out ignorance that is the cause of all shame
With words that are akin to the words that created worlds this is what you are caught up in there is no
Time for idleness go and spread this word to the four corners of man’s domain we are heroes yet made
By the very words that are possessed and won at altars the planks of mortals that build a stairway to
Glory the earth yearns and dies while you tarry the breach long ago in Eden now the dream is to be
Fulfilled by holy men and women strong enough to face this most demanding challenge forget self catch
Fire with holy zeal burn only for others the world will change from carnage to gifts that bestow
Abundant Life we have never lived in a world that we could make by surrendering our dreams for stellar
exploits
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
Ah, you are anxious today my morbid rule-breaker;
Forever and never sound much the same when your mouth is full of questions.
Our lives were once dull and sober, now we’re littered crooked bastions,
But no such fairy-tales are ever uttered to an unconvincing faker.
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 3:28 PM UTC
Marooned in an island of his own creation,
full of machine wonders and prehistoric monsters
never one could dream,
he realizes,
life is what one brings out from
the depth of one's psyche's churning,
yet as much a creation of hands working,
on the potter's wheel that's turning
to create shapes of things we never had foreseen.
But deep down, he is a rage,
a fire threatening to erupt and consume all bastions of waste,
built, around our lives, by thoughtless monsters,
then,
a happy haze prompt him to flower,
a rhapsody, kicks its baby legs inside
a startling beauty begins to emerge.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
Looking out this double-paned plate glass window into the gray frigidity and red-leaved bitterness of October in one of the last wild and still-untamed bastions of freedom in the west at the mountains thinking about how even they are moving, my darling, and how the spaces in between them are growing just like the space in between the sun and the earth and the space between all the galaxies all at once and the space between the spaces between the world and I and soon I’ll just be floating all by my lonesome in some swirling pool of- not air, no, not even air, just nothingness and watching everything float away like disappearing city limits from the tailgate of a truck on cruise control zipping across the badlands and maybe you’ll be there but going the opposite way and there’ll be nothing to do but watch it all go, go, go, til it’s
gone, gone, gone
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
All my boys, their eyes, upon me
Like peeping Gods from the heights of my
Mind. Their eyes--those lights--
Reflecting different spectrums of color
Hazel-speckled, deep black-brown
Gazing down upon me, from those bastions of
Memory, wandering somewhere above--
Dark shadows, eluding presence but always present
Always lingering behind the step of my feet
Trailing slowly, slowly.
Carried by the slack of my clicking heels.
Dragged into bed with me at night, with new boys
My new boys, their eyes, those lights
The spectrum of colors--
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
Beautiful bearings of broken bonds
Bound, bewildered and bitter.
Break backs of blind behemoths
Being better, beating backlash
Booming boldness, and bombs
Brains battle blighted beast
Bribery brews boiling blood
Building bastions buried by bombs
Brought by belief, but betrayal beckoned
Bastille bells burdened by beheadings
Behold beginnings birth bloom.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
The solicitous Self,
with and in each exchange
of conversation's
volley of commiserating
commissary verbages
words of curbs and gutters,
owns not its guilt
knows not good will
nor for those whom shatter
in our drowning hours, unstill...
The Self is begging
for your idolatry's bastions,
wants you to find it beautiful
and superior
above any other
attention and ingestion
gorging and hoarding
the tid-bit compliments
the cloud nine glances
succulent smiles / flirtatious lick of lips
the audience pumping up
its hot air ego-balloon
to beach ball widths
a deadly kind of perdition
for you, character fool
careless and distracted
blase' as a toad on a stoop...
It is a ****
the amorous Self is
harmless, the beginning seeds
and whimsy / at flowering
in your hands:
fluff and puff intimations
child-like glee / pleasing / blowing
nonpluss dandelions
nonthreatening
in ruminations
N' stuff...
but like any ****
when it spreads and takes hold
the real estate of your time and soul
it chokes and feeds
off your serene prosperity
of peace of mind
of identity
a thief of your ideas
makes your dreams its own
It suffocates all others
behaves with dismissive airs
like you it becomes
you, who has watered
this pest and catered to its musings
like a sudden sunrise it appears
out of the blue appealing
a dandelion, quaint & demure
yet alluring
The ********** that is the selfish
solicitous thorn
knows its own nature
far too well
hides its hideous
kink so none can warn
it is a war
with Self
the attention *****
Self being compelled
as all else
a parasite to its growth
a virus and its host
what she now only has to give
in return:
assuage
her malingered spell
she breeds in you
a ghost of once you were
wastrel grime
wasted time
an empty shell
Abhorred.
Careful what the Self
is selling
the solicitudes
of obsessions
Possession
Suffocation
not much else...
No succor for the Self.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
Through hazy , seasoned myopic eyes all the sights and sounds of woodland creatures do enchant and amaze ! Robins relay the message of my presence , White tailed deer barely render a nod and continue to graze ..
Fall Georgia skies painted by the renaissance artist , chilled zoysia and fescue cools the feet of the timid , skeptical albeit grateful introvert ..
Dirt roads pretend to run forever this morning , playful Sun hides like the gifted actress , behind gray blankets ! Resolute .. Cunning ..
White Pines bear witness to the active forest , Eastern gray squirrels signal impatiently , awaiting the call of Winter ..
Random thoughts collect like silver rainwater pools , virtual bastions of aquatic life that dot the landscape , olive brush strokes , red Maple swirls , prolific Water Oaks recall young boys in search of newts , mud puppies and tadpoles ..
Songbirds hide within briar thickets performing their daily song list for all that would give ear , rock bass and bream gorge on a bounty of white flies served by the morning breeze .. The pond is a looking glass today , sharing her piece of colorful sky for childlike imaginations such as mine , tiny frogs providing musical accompaniment with glorious song while Angelic host incessantly highlight her surface with gentle blue and green hues , soft tones ..
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
Mighty bastions beg you stay strong
I have no desire to see you burn in fire
Stop the evil from doing us wrong
At times I feel the need to open up the gates
But clad in stone and clay I'll make my own fate
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
Grass
Jutting
Head
Butting
The dead
Lie in bastions
Abutting
Fortifications
Of the living
Whilst angels
Sing of blasphemy
And the heavens cry bile
Mans race
To contaminate
Space
Look closely
The esoteric
Genetics
Unseen
In human DNA
Confound
Look back
Behind
Up towards
An odyssey
The collapse of a star
Infinite and
Beyond reach
Obsolete
The existence
It once existed
Thought extinct
Human iris
Cloned galaxies
Clues to origins
Erstwhile taboo
Yet
Twelve thousand dollars
Shat
Upon a woman's chest
In jest
Unjust
While the
Innocent hunger
Pangs of the just
The meek emanates truth
And weeps degradation
Upon the masses
Bathing in its delight
Soothing of its ecstasy
Governments
Capitulate peace
Their pockets weighted of gold
Precipitates hate
Hate of me
Hate
Of you
Entangles the psych
Towards
The precipice of war
Bodies
Upon
Bodies
Buried in forgotten pits
Women wails
Screams of banshees
At the sight of death
Revenge
More death
Consoling
Conspiring
Conjuring
Retribution
Rebellion
Conflict
Bloodshed
Human suffering
Destruction
Suffers conglomerate
Occupation
Destruction
Reconstruction
Reconstructed thought
Confirm into
Neo-Society
A ******* blight
Upon
Humanity
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC