Breaking all the rules,
There they are like sanctions,
A double vision to a double end,
Secret lies for us to comprehend.
Freedom bore no place here,
It bears no meaning, nor no hope,
A shackle or a chain are all the same,
These are the courses we take.
And, with each days decisions,
Consequences of pain,
Life itself remains unconquered, you see it,
Amounting to all the same.
True to you is like the punishment recurring,
Yet untrue is immediate and cursed,
These very moments, weaken the weakness and weaker still,
The birds sing the songs I have heard them rehearse.
Light dawns on an early morning, twilight dawns and dawns a burden or a curse.
Another choice drifts nearer, the same set of choices that once were,
They have come with the sun to hurt us.
And hurt, they will, some more.
Conversations play like games of chess,
Tactics in words shifting their pieces with their meanings
Maybe poker, like a bluff or a guess,
Maybe imagination expands on less.
But, truth will out and games all end,
And all the cards will equal the deck,
That is the gamble, and the consequence,
That is life and imperfection.
When love is tangled in a knotted web,
For that moment where Sisyphus takes hubris for his glory,
To play to loose and crumble climb after climb,
And encumber justice of the gods despite the story
Tis man who loses less and less.
Light dawns brighter with shutters drawn,
Peaking in and bringing the truths closer to their place of rest
Distance reminds us of home
And it is further than sleep will allow the spirit to acquiesce.
Sleep or sleep and night of quiet,
Golum comes for his ring,
The key he holds in his desire,
To hide that brute and murderous liar.
Golum waits till slumber, to remind,
We are all souls in desire, and night brings the snake to us all
and the fire.
So daylight breaks, birds sing their song,
They mate and fly and dance along
But, for Job, for Judas and for Peter,
The single man, the breaking bread,
Shaking hands and hanging head
Sacrilege smiles as we wake to glib
And that is life and that is majesty,
It is in those fables we hang our heads.
We are without perfection but welcome are we in company,
And, don’t forget Bessie Smith,
Rich once and poor twice and human through and through,
We’ll cheer the champagne and forget all the evil do,
For we have treacle tart, cars and Andy Warhol to remind us,
There is no soul in art.
That is life, that is the pity of the profound.
A sorry lot if we cared, but, we don’t,
Like children born to be born again
We are here only, to roll around.