Docked dreams, dying wisdom
becomes this fable, damaged by reverie
and mockery, these triflings illuminate
the wantwit cause that ablaze all the
abject feelings of an afterthought of
what held this loathing curse in abbreviation, this
unwelcomed cunning guardian diligently moderates this
catharsis, alas, thy conscience is the eminent conspirator
from whence you hold on for alliance, the foisted ambitions
to be what others want you to be, not yours; the flutter-tongued
nihilist who’s the Jupiter of your demise awaits for your visit
home but the fewterer won't chain you again, no more lullabies
to fend off the loyalists who occupy the toiling of your time, no
more ornamental emotions, and no more pompous fusillades, this
overgarment of life repossess all your rewards and all your
resurrections, your abode of tragedy, your malposed of warmth, your
scoffery of death, all that matters, all that's unknown, and all that's
unforgiving breathes injuriously out the insignificance you've held
inside consuming every paroxysmal dream and desire.
