Sanctified Dissension

 

 

 

 

 

It must be positively horrid not possessing a soul
All that delicious essence and nowhere in particular for it to go
It must get mighty lonely in that cold black heart of yours
No blood that isn’t frozen
No beat that hasn’t been carefully chosen
Playing Chess alone in your funeral dress
With no moves left for making that do not result in stalemate
Scared that the whole world will soon discover you’re nothing but a fast flaking fake
A snake parading in human skin
With nothing but ineffective venom within
A poison kiss which contaminates the lips
And all you come in contact with

 

In actual fact, its somewhat tragic
That one can wind up so dogmatic
that you fail to spot your own psychosomatic delusion
And wind up lord of your very own illusion
Signing your own writ of execution by celebrating destitution
Like it’s some kind of secret knock institution
While making no real active contribution
Aside from hollow elocution

 

Words mean precious little when you back them up with nothingness
And there is absolutely nothing worse than passing this off as seductiveness
Playing misty just to ratchet up the mystique
Thinking yourself discreet when your thin-veiled disguise is long since obsolete
A pain of sheet glass to see right through
And much ado about nothing new
Just one constant loop of residual gloop which cowers once the light shines through

 

Brightness startles you
As you much prefer a partial view
Peeking through the blinds like the light will burn your scar tissue
The quill which you discharge into bleeds the empty prose of retarded youth
Time to grow up now
Time to show up now
Time to take that swollen mouth and use it to facilitate something true
Parasites may travel light but they come down hard on those they blight
Pissing from a prodigious height on anyone deemed of lesser sight
Your margin of error is frightfully slight as you measure each whoever with the narrowest eyes
Which just so happen to tell the exact same lies ten thousand times over
Pocketing disposable income from the dominion you preside over
Believing your minions would mourn you if you spilt some milk for them to cry over

 

And perhaps they would
For a moment or two
If you ceased to heap each weak beat of your heart into quests of deception as you don’t dance smart
Then maybe you could go somewhere fresh with your art
Or change the broken record
All that crude dust has gone backed up your stylus
And while you may enjoy the silence
There appears to be an over reliance on keeping up morbid appearances
But do you know what the really sad thing is?
That you high-five ignorance and label it as bliss
A cruel twist of most capricious fate
As you document a fictitious tale
Live in one continuous transition state
And without a soul to call your own
You amount to little more than artificial bait

 

It must be positively wretched not possessing a soul
So why not place sufficient weight into finding your very own
Should you go about this the right way then it may slow your decomposition rate
But only you can decide on the submission date
Leave it too late and you may dine alone
With nothing remaining but a dead dial tone
Will be way too late then for pious hope
And to think
All that was absent was any sign of a soul

 

 

 

Richard Charles Stevens

 

Grey-Chapel Path

 

 

 

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