Poetry

In the world that we despise,
are there times of loss or wonder?
Toiling ever, full of lies,
sick of writhing, going under.

In that bleakness waiting never,
'till no senseless drone became.
Wrath or sunder, thrash or sever,
breaking through with none to claim.

And that weakness sups upon us,
gibbers for our souls do slake.
With a thirst so vile and vicious,
we but shiver in its wake.

Thus all reason burns with malice,
shackled minds do shriek and wail.
It's the endless wrath of solace,
which expects all things to fail.

Our existence springs from chaos,
maelstrom forged and wrongly won.
And when entropy does claim us,
that is all we are: undone.

So the onslaught of tomorrows,
crushes bones of beneath the skies.
And the eons fall like shadows,
in the world that we despise.

And she who danced upon the darkness,
breaks and thrashes on the floor.
Throwing fits of rage and fury,
torn and sundered to the core.

Blistered through and through with wonder,
blasted from the roles of fate.
Ripped and wretched for a moment,
crushed with woe upon the gate.

A tawny force a’canting,
in a melancholy spire,
does cry and waver, ranting
among blackened souls afire.

The split and crackle churning,
always wrought by leavened hale,
attempts to quench the burning
in a mixed-up, sundry tale.

By sultry fates asunder,
those calamities do gaze
into most guarded plunder,
only whets desire to raze.

And there are those that vanish,
beneath the sundered skies.
Who prey upon the witless,
with malice in their eyes.

Sit smoking in the landscape,
a rolling wake of rage.
Tumultuous with a sickness.
beyond mere turn of age.

This rhyming lilt of marching,
doth shake the pebbled earth.
Resplendent in the darkness,
erasing his own birth.