Saturday, March 18, 2017

Wayne Russell writes


The unknown is where the true lies, dark and mysterious, defunct society captured in a malignant universe.

Naked cosmos bask by the craggy shoreline, death stalks as the wolf does the lamb.

We can only await our calling, our number served at the cool calculated moment of his choosing.

We await this morbid curse of sin; we reap the harvest of death more slowly than others.

Darkness implodes the psyche, we all embrace sanity when we all stare, blinded by weapons of our own making, we get off on death and bloodshed; the six o’clock news remains death's announcer. 

Jaded by love, awoken only by this cure of onslaught, the masses relinquish all wealth and power, at last when lady luck gives in to the god of death.

The winds still blow; darkness embraces us, as the light of children’s eyes mutate into old age growing bitter with the seasons.

All hail father death, as mother earth’s bosom fades with the insane gallop of time.

Infused, in the pale curdled moonlight I can see the world crumble.

People become giants that devour, then brag about
their conquest, another blow; chalked up like notches scrawled upon a pseudo oak bedpost.

The earth is weeping rivers of filth; soon she will roar and rebel. 

Eye -- M. C. Escher

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