Intended Illusion

O me, O mine,
O whorls of intended illusion,
O hurried words of last line,
What curse has laid my land to woe,
What seeds doth, these blind eyes sow
To what end, to what end,
Must a hopeful heart vie,
For all the horrors I have unseen everyday,
Do I weep in late pity, or laugh till I die.

Behold, these smithereens,
Boastful proses,
Once mighty and meaningful,
Now charred, and beaten,
Now trapped in time,
No more holding limbs of truth, supple and strong
But mumbling; like thunder from some distant land,
The feeble fallacies of fallen men,
No longer alive to question the answer unexplained,
What hand doth the wordless worship seek, now
In the acts hidden in hallways quiet,
Where all who walk,
In silence steal,
The shadow that shapes the fall of light.

You of vision; low and long,
Where mindless things on mercy sleeps
To ends unassumed, and unaccounted,
This path leads but never last,
For a moment’s present comes to still as a forever past,
And before all,
The abyss shall enter us,
And I have no strength to make it through,
Without breaking into thousand seashells disguised as bones,
Each bartered for flesh, when I felt too alone,
In this heathen world of heretics,
In this epic of serrated life.

Would the end come crawling,
Or blazing bright,
Would it feel as feather,
Or a black asp’s bite,
Would I know,
Shall I dare to dream;
A silent solace,
A painful scream,
Or go unanswered,
Like all before me,
Who turned to peek,
And ceased to see…