In a time of narcissism, favour, and fancy
There is little that is certain.
Wash your hands and dry your eyes
Before you pull the curtain.
Take away not what you see,
But rather, quite the contrary.
Oscillate and segregate
And of the Factions recite nary.
A word, a whim; a need to live
A practical joke unsided.
A prank, a fake, an abnormal hymn
On oceans’ beaches tided.
Hear now the delicate tune
That old familiar sound
The one that drags your insides out
And throughout your head it pounds.
Today? Tomorrow?
I’m not really sure
I haven’t figured it out
But once I find the cure
My soul will rise my words will publish
Fear and misconceptions
Built on bias loathing pain
And willful contraceptions
Whispering softly in my ear
Make the music sing it dear
Take back year and year and year
Slowly self will disappear.
Strong chorus, cheap verse
Possibly the opposite
Wrangling inside the dome
Of intellectual bile and spit.
A finished phrase;
A written word;
Long and slow the numbered days...
A bloodstain on my sword.
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