I am a rag

I am but a wethered rag
seething in my rage
for when there is another rag
still my employment is engaged.

Scrub my face into the grime
that did not come from me,
Scrape my wrinkles all the time
to make not myself clean.

Crumple me and soak me now
in your murky water til I drown.
Until again I am revived
and again I'll grimly frown.

{...

Detachment gradually seeps beneath the eyelids whose gaze is twisted into percieving all that was once so lauded now in a light uncanny in its ability to ascertain the bitterness bore of the dismal and bleak absence of legitimate significance. The eyes flutter only to permit the mind to administer to itself its vital dosage of what must indeed be reality, and reality is without hope, without exaltation, without the radiance it once so beamed with and granted life meaning with. What catalyzed this despairing, morbid conversion? What wrested life's beauty and, in turn, the prizes of gratitude and astonishment for that now extinct but once thriving, intricate artistry?
The touch of another..had been the most astounding ecstasy. Its utter magic had cajoled the expectancy for its constant repetition and for it to incite only more enormous enthusiasm each moment it would again happen. Though withered has not only the expectancy become, but the joy as well. The anticipation fell as did the occurences, and the elation perished next for the fret that getting one's hopes up yet again would prove as virulent a mistake as it had before, for it must now certainly be recognized that everything is eventually terminated or does slowly discintigrate, and when the end appears, when the start and the middle have decayed and it is plain the speed at which all is dying cannot by any means be reversed nor paused, one must face the loss of their elation's source, and such a despairing task can have its difficulty diminished only by one having recieved less joy from the source.

Yeah, stupid, whatever, too wordy

I. As the silhouettes of the meek, gently sloping hills were birthed when the sun had stemmed from the depths of what could have only been pandora’s box, their outlines merged across the pure sky whose whimsical blue had been weathered and eventually dismantled by the emergence of sunbeams that had claimed for the air a new color, a mesmerizing, sizzling yellow that had foreshadowed next the arrival of the king that was the sun, and it had floated up in a divine levitation to address its kingdom that was Earth. All the while, the stunted pinnacles of each hill were blurred and molded this way and that as the light beams were indecisive artists.
Beneath the ascending sun, this horizon seemed to quiver and pulsate in expectant anticipation of some sudden release of eccentric exhilaration that would strike the atmosphere with no less subtlety than a strong puncture being administered quickly into a delicate shard of glass, inducing intense fractures that would cleave the glass into a myriad of fragments. But no such abruption of energy was to seize or manipulate any fraction of the cloudless sky. Though lacking such a rapidly bestown dosage of surging enthrallment, the abyss of pastel blue blotched by vibrant yellow that consumed, with the hunger of a fervent wildfire, every particle not somehow bonded with the earth, invaded one’s senses and rejuvenated them in some ritual of rebirthing that does inevitably capture one upon the obtaining of the satisfaction that accompanies the embracing of a final decision, the decision to dismiss the temptation of sleep and, with great courage and determination and optimism, to immerse one’s self utterly into the rhythm of reality and the melody of familiarity, its unrelenting but often consoling consistency as durable and soothing as the certainty that another wave will always collapse upon and be dissolved into oblivion by the ocean’s shore, forever and without any hesitation from which the ignition of doubtfulness could originate.

Liarrrr

Oh, how fucking humorous. The rapid rate, treacherously flaming in a virulent pace that intends to approach no less than the grimy, ghastly face ablaze of Satan's poisionous lechery, the deceitful malace that twists and contorts and ultimately renders all that reigns in divine glory a distortion, a smirking mirage of disillusion, all for the sake of worshipping one's ego, for one who yearns to weave the religion that lauds and wails the precious songs of sacred exaltation for one's self and one's self alone; for one whose might quivers beneath no king and bends for no authority but that one's own; for one who yields to no law but that which was founded on that one's terms, terms which endeavor to construct no shelter nor gratitude for any other but that one; for one who carves pillars of caniving enthusiasm on which their own sacred wishes, but no others' may rest; for one who clutches to their heart no gems but those which compose their own pleasure and beseech no granting of pleasure unto any other, is the one who molds the path by which the glory of righteousness and mercy are sped down til terminated in the eyes of any audience unwitting of the origination of the righteousness as it is morphed by some demonic mirror into a scathing portrait of maniacal irony, the apex of its core's very opposition, blinding in its decieving viel of malicious darkness, whose depths appear, to the anxious onlooker, ever shallow as is the lust of the architect responsible for the betrayl.

deceit

The viel of Satan looms
over gritty, ugly fumes,
the vapors of the malicious,
neath the canopy ever vicious.

The painting, in sacred intensity,
does dispell eccentric sensitivity,
as the allure cannot a horror bear;
what but charm does the vision wear?

Jovially does the beholder
of the falsity fall so,
unwitting of the kindling
of for him eternal woe,
as while the seeping starlight
does bend the lines of reason,
beneath the singing sight
is a triumphant treason.

to crystallize the second

Does one always endeaver
to crystallize the second?
To clutch the clock's rapid hands
and fixate upon the moment?
And marvel at its gleaming craft,
the pattern of its puzzle,
why cannot one dismiss time's grasp
and against the stillness nuzzle?
If one could savor eternity
in one second of one day,
if one could wrest the fertility
of life with time tossed so away,
could not the bewitching glory
of the sullen silence of pure existance
clean of the ticking folly
of seconds consistent in persistance
uncloak the anguish of life,
dismiss its degredation,
restore the vivaciousness of youth,
revive the affirmation
of consecration?

Innocent love

Eerie is the tune of love,
too unpredictable a haven,
and striking and quick as the cherished dove,
but ugly and fiesty as the raven.

Its melody is murmured, muffled,
resonating in the ears of youth,
and these ears of disillusion shuffle
the truth of inevitable rebuke.

The pure and expecting mentality
nurtures a notion too naive,
beholds a love eternally
too innocent by all means.

Exquisite may be the hearth constructed
in minds with no fantasy constricted,
though what does cleave the treasured dream,
but lone growing age so it would seem.