One Poem From Mud Poetry

One Poem From Mud Poetry elegy

Uploaded by Doug Jackson

Strangers from incident, lies for distance, pitfalls of living infrequent,
Rushes of sympathy pass over like fever sweat.
In concurrent motion the wolves swarm on the lifeless carcass. Impending emotions fill the hole in my stomach, my chest continues to sting, the violin strings are old, the violin itself hopeless, the sound of imminent distress rings clear, suicide seeming like a valid option.
I cannot argue, I won’t argue, apathy lingers, sympathy dies,
Concern for the wayward stranger ceases at intrusion of personal space. My reply; it’s tough all over.
Indeed, with Time hatred either breaks or gains its momentum.
From defeat faith may subside, but from ignorance & simple-minded boasting of
Hopeful prowess, death of the soul begins.
And as the soul shrinks, man’s ego inflates,
And as the soul shrinks, man’s self-respect dissipates.
Man is but a shadow of our past.
No longer brave explorers, only trendsetters & money-makers, whores in the biblical sense. Substance, paper, and fear now rule us. Any sense of humanistic pride has been washed away with the sediment and glaciers, man is but a shell of his former self. Advertisements rule our thought process, streamed and fed to a mindless bunch, un-thwarted. Resistance was in our DNA, now comfort, ease, just getting by, and laziness riddle our spines. Soul-less wanderers upon explicit instruction to be miserable, complacent, and cowardice is the way of life. A society of half-wits undetermined to change, learn, or even try, encouraged with
Dope & speed in pharmaceutical form to distract us until death.
Newborns stand as little chance as the elders, our last piece of dignity and respect were written off. Mercury, fluoride, Onyx and Aries, the Pitchforks of disease, hunger, and impiety surround the Gates of hypocrisy, flooded by the crimson water of the inoperable.
Insulted by stares misunderstood by found sanctity at the
Expense of my isolation,
Washed clean of my guilt,
Remorse paves congruency. Overwhelmed by the energy of the redundant,
Regurgitation comes to mind. Hapless wanderers upon explicit
Direction to act like the brain-dead morons
Whom their parent’s strode to be,
Slowly creeps down the leg of the carcass of a stomach-less hyena.
Empowered by power in a powerless source of
Falseness, the weight on my shoulders,
Globe-like, surrounded by 33 moons of unknown
Origin ridicule my being, for reasons I have
Yet to fathom, reasons I have fathomed,
Life is a joke, a sarcastic belittlement of Insincerity & rape,
Both mental and physical. Either that, or “God” is just a prankster.
Leave the hat on the floor, and off the bed as well.

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