Unawareness. Sad, sad scourge,
Where despite the cleavers
gleam
Enroll again! On we
surge
Upon the cold, cold
table we
Will once more lay
prone for
His convenient dream
Watch we shall, March
we will
From the silos to the
unmarked graves
To cut across reaping
fields, ever forward on we stave.
Vivisection does not breed
good intention,
Do not believe
anything they say, it’s never about
The process, it’s
always about the pain
Inflicted, where the
loudest are the strong, and the screams expire before the walls wail their weeping
songs, while the sick, while the poor, shed not one tear more
Bone to bone. Disassembled
on
Slats of marble,
practiced upon
For those not cared
for
Are but generic and
alone
stainless tin, cold,
cold steel
each discarded, parts
and whole
Sad it is, for these,
not a tear is felt
Separated by the lash
of an imposter God
Fearing a day without,
where future’s freedom’s left in doubt
Leaving but an unheard
requiem, a lesson, a sigh, for without the crackling, pain does not yield, ever
forward stirs the prod
Reassembled, fractions and sums
As only a self-termed God
would dare attempt make whole,
Such reunions of the
recent dead
Your image yet fans
each flame incited by the memories haunting the dreams of your dearest
mourners, where words, spoken in your natural tongue, engrain each minute of
slumber, with the writhing procurement loss endows
Every piece within is
found without.
All lined up across
this wall
Organized precisely
yet scattered haphazardly about
And here treads a man,
in the shallowest depths of water, pacing in wander, sloshing over each
direction ever scoured
Ever mired is the misery
concomitant to each shard remembered, never knowing what tortures persist to
lurk
Yet, it is he, who we
cannot dare guess upon; it is he, who never sickens thinner than frame allows,
for repetition’s mysteries here assembled sour not the troubles therein
Jars of me, at rest,
alone
In this sealed
solution,
flesh plucked clean,
off its bone
a floating cage with
lockless ends
Forever swimming—
Never truly dead, yet life
barely seep these veins,
Floating simply about, within this pool, an
aquarium
Where waves are as absent, as those prehistoric beasts
science willfully omits from the present-day vernacular
Pickled in formaldehyde; Awash,
then dried,
By permutations cloth,
preserved forever, yet
Never, in such company,
could the soul hope to thrive within
Errors form the function, upon this weavers loom,
Tainted by misfortune,
needles sew wryly their quilted interpretations, echoic of our most hollowed
depths of doom
Expertise is ignored, when
it’s failure that’s exposed,
Leaving only the thrush of pride, forever hidden—shall
we try, to find pathos, through wisdom’s ever dwindling light?
Parceled streams create purported visions—albeit in
lieu of the self-sustaining sufficiency such stained seams require—
Where thusly soon thereafter, we are quick to
notice that the breadcrumbs have all grown stale and indigestible
Here, the body secretes
away its last remaining vertebrae, crafted, is a sense of clarity, never known
or seen before—proffering each sentiment stored away, with the dank chill
preeminently found whilst creeping seditiously amongst those reservations not
your own—for it is within these chambers, where the stagnant air of darkness, adroitly
replicates mankind’s first regret—
Yet strangely enough, for now, a change is found—an
unrequited epiphany appears—here, falling forward—we see through the murky
horizons and past the greyest clouds, envisioning that fleck of precognition
crucial to surviving this nightmare realm our beings have been unwittingly cast
unto—
It was in each these bands of sparks, whose arcs
bestowed more than superficiality, but legitimate directions to salvation—here,
it was found that one can be lonely, without succumbing to loneliness, where
one can be alone, yet sated still—for it was then, when needed the most, that I
became aware, aware, fully, completely aware, where the torture that shall
surely follow, will be nothing to the comfort I now feel.
