ON WRATH

 

You People

 

Conformity is the well that feeds society. Exhausted reserve—I am tired of lending my arms to a populace of disdain. These hands are scarred and heavy from fetching boiling comforts for the complacent. Compensation is the name of a space to be. A place to rest, carved in the minds of the faint and sold for the currency of possibility; plane of slumber—ensnaring myriads, travelers and fiends alike, trapping their entirety, back to back. Assimilation. Too eagerly do they greet their end. Too willingly do they swipe the waking hand—to join the ranks of others petrified. Fury paints my eyes red. The mad face of soundness is drawn on those who cease to be of a people, who take the stand—liberated, shoulders laden with blooming crosses—of a person. Denial! Denial, the screech of senses bright, our ghastly shake against indignity—depreciation of refinement within us. How is one not to contemn the bird that sullies rich soils beneath? Carried by ballooning quiffs. A flock that roars violently through the ubiquitous undercurrents of sensibility. Distortion. The sonorous ring of a morning bell.

* * *

 
 
 
 
 

To Time

 

You—Universal cure. Poison! Healer of wounds by the regression of life. Trading numbness for memory; are you not the merchant of death? Incubator. The cord to all.—are aether to me. Medium of this fervent age, your lap forms pillow and cage. I have come to claim myself in abhoring you. If dust is what awaits me, I will receive your searing drink no more. Feel! this prisoner loathe you more than everything you could never be.—Root of decay, o first annihilator. How often have I begged you to show courtesy?—If left is still a will to move, a raging heart for aging fists, then it must free itself of your reign, your mindless arbitrating, and seek the light of a gentler star in the blackness of our canopy. Engine of a false eternity. Your channel shall be clawed apart in torment. My conviction needs but single proof—the supreme ache of your realization. A free fall to take me from zero-g to mortality. To the peace of modest ways—humanity. On a slab of steel, under the inane sun of time, I melt into air.

* * *

 
 
 
 
 

Boiling Point

 

In this heat.

Mercury tells of

Thirty stakes

Skewering the mind

With blistering scorn,

 
 

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