Oh, the circling vultures refuse to gnaw out my heart
Though the crows mock me as supreme squires with
their judicial caws
I've stumbled on this curse again, will not depart,
This meddling with my God;
Gilded cages, silent rages
Weathered every season
Upon thine history pages
Bourne this unspoken reason
Why thy madness beckons me?
To this wreckage of wilt
That lures Me back to thee
And this abundance of guilt.
Watching the squirrels fly
Through the air with ease
Effortlessly these flying
Critters on their limb trapezes.
The bushy-tailed critters love to steal
Every nut that can be heisted
Yet, come the cold wintertime
They become shortsighted.
The absent-minded rodent
Forgot where he stashed the nuts
Digging through the snow
Reckless and starving like a putz.
I just got back from Hell
And all is not well.
I drove my truck
Into bad luck,
Now, I'm fucked.
I sit here in Hell,
And all is not well.
I lost my faith in the Almighty
Loving Aphrodite
Now, it's good nighty.
I just got back from Hell
And all is not well.
As the bell tolled, resounding, it also told,
of the death of the fallen Hero. His last
quotidian day on earth and the detritus
of memories that light up the contemptuous
sorrow. The coward vacillates his gamble, yet
the Hero dies. His folie à deux: chasing freedom
and some feebled belief in an unanswering god.
We never know what nightmares lie curled
beneath comfort’s pillow. Killing in
the name of freedom with such
heinous acts and calling this
liberation is an alternative reality.
Conquering the weak only represses
the hold on the masses. Kings are not
mortal; they rule by necessity and
greed. A whipped horse obeys, yet
his eyes never forget the rack of
punishment he's endured. Revolt
will come, and then all kings will
bow unto the subservient soldier.
Chronology isn't kind to despots,
kings, queens, and czars; let it be
written for the common man
that no tyrant will ever control
the world.
With not a worry in the world, I headed out in my car
listening to Bob Seger’s Main Street,
Reclusive Tendencies
The boketto begins, no one is to blame.
Your meraki has fallen from your work.
You’ve travelled in silence to keep from
screaming, this fanaa eats away like cancer.
You’ve never reached for any hand or smiled, yet
your futifaction glares back in gruesome hollowness.
Life’s become something more than you bargained for, you’ve
squandered away all your hopes, and your last dream is vacated
by grief. Once an oriflamme for misery now the only embrace
of comfort is sunshine. This adoxography placates your need to be heard
or accepted. Still, this Orphic is all you desire, you’re seldom
enthusiastic about some fancy mention of trivial wares, for your
eudaimonia cannot be bought or secured by some shallow
penchant. This genie won’t return her gift; one must first
recognize one’s despair to begin to love what keeps you
willfully alive. Death owes no promise to you, but living
with the imperishable hope of retrieving this lost legitimacy
is all that is required of this loathsome penance. You’ve lengthened
your mind to vast catharsis, and worrying about death only shortened your life.
- John Hardesty
©️1/23/2020
