Wednesday, April 9, 2008


So many like knives they walk,
Sharp and flat, long of stride and angled of tongue;
Their trail wafting, cold and so dextrously-placed --
Calculated coldly with cruel intent to draw blade to flesh,
To crush the self and with intoxicants to drown the lung

So unlike the glare from the edge on the good sun
Are their eyes, so dull and pale these milkwash orbs;
Dead; so far-gone that internal spark, their vehicle driven
Only further in their pursuit in the entrapment of further flesh,
Cast far they can that seductive chord

So few those that resist, so many that end so entangled
Yet with eyes equally as dll as the captor arachnid,
How is better to be hoped for choice but chemical thralldom?
Yet twice-damned the same, be it fated or not --
As livestock to slaughter led

So singly they who defy the Word, who --
By mere alone gaze and very sense of presence,
Render unto new laws of calculation and shatter intention --
They that manage, above and superior to the chemical
-- to not press for undue advantage, yet - leave none to chance

So wrapped in singularity twice-bound we sit, wait --
Yet therein lies the struggle of relinquished solace,
As all movements lead not to nauht, but -- but rather,
To points of origin, forever fleeting from destination,
Leading always up to, as it should not, a cause lost.

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