Tuesday, December 27, 2016

The false light of hope

So I talked with my jailor the other day, bout the false
light of hope in a round a bout way. And he told me so
plainly and dear to my heart, you've been doomed my dear
from the very first start... of yer life. You changeling of a past
full of strife.

dogma is the magma of gods... who wield those swords
to rusty old cods, piece of what could have been, if only
gods were made of men. (ahem, I'm a woman in case your not noticing)
When? A dynasty of past comes into play, karma as dogma will
have it's say. Here, here! says the jester who would not sleep, electrified
body of benevolent sheep. I sing a song upon a tuff of a spider's dream
whose weave is enough. Life is tough.

Stringy, and mushy, or sullenly flat, the woman in the kitchen knows about that.

Cooking and baking is all she can do, but ah, the sworn secrets she once did know, are a swirling and curling the lines she once drew. A stick figure man
on the flat-land it seems, the poised little figure on a promise of dreams.

Do not throw pearls to swine, said the rhythm to rhyme. It will all come out
in the wash in a matter of time... my good man. Man-kind? Ha!

So in new age decollage, the tearing away of a moldy fromage, comes the trumpets of what was when, when the peasants have admitted their sin.
And the cycle begins again, to seekers of the armageddon, or to the martyr's
of what might have been. All hope has been lost and what is the cost?

The merry-go-round goes round again. Cheers, says the tiny tim.

If you thought that a Savior could curry your favor...
well, you would be right again. Ain't no sin.

Take a deep breath, and find it within.

Save your... whatever. Now that's a worthy endeavor.

(practical, but not very clever)

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