Remaster (Vigilante Suite)


Featured art by Johannes Stötter

Listen to Remaster by Richard Charles Stevens (Vigilante Suite)

Listen to Vigilante by crt_head

Handcuffed to reality
Waiting for the bell to toll
Banking on epiphany
To force this round peg into a square hole
I felt cold as the death toll continued to surge
As I head to my hellhole dead tissue to purge
Therein to emerge
In the same state of flux
That had clung to my crux
With near terminal suction
Halting production of the pheromones I needed to release to see defeated the feeling of deconstruction
While revealing reproduction of the chromosomes this poem owes to
Lotus pose
Owed no known interruption

Reality bit
I emphatically flinched
Then forgave it for snatching some way more than an inch
Felt forcibly clinched
By the static impinging the formerly fringe of my psyche
Implausibly calm
As no harm had befallen me
Since I invited my mind to ripen cordially
Morbidly depleted of enrapture for conformity no stature bid maintain
Fate had been abnormally irate in making plain that every pore of me negated to see more of me bared naked
Felt ashamed before I faded
Insubordinate outdated in the thoughts that masqueraded as exorbitance of pain
Did I abstain from taking names of every needle in my veins
For all the cautionary tales
And disproportionate entail
I had prevailed thus far
An ornament of heedful entertain
Needful things these wings of mine
Once singed by light
Now tinged divine
Had to be the fallen angel
Had to play at martyr
Had to heed the call of nature
Bleed all of me
Sworn to brace stigmata
In the name of my dear father
I would not betray my faith
I would not disgrace his memory and energy that way
For essentially he never went away
His essence is my treasury’s perpetual donate
And one fine day
I’ll see him once again
Until such time
He’ll be here
Just the same

Handcuffed to reality I may be
But then maybe musicality is fantasy
And luck my leading lady
Stuck in the middle
With a riddle and a truth
There’s enough of me to fiddle on the roof
Little by little
Find a way to gain acquittal
From the dwindling of kindling
My singing flame outgrew
As I remained ablaze in ways my days and nights could barely widen to contain
Hide and seek once saw me peeking
Over where the boards were creaking
Speaking of rewards
Towards which caution was of course retreating
Thoughtfully exhaustive were the thoughts relief contorted from the grief I’d seen aborted
With belief in me supportive of the need to be imported
From the leaves of trees my deepest dreams exalted
Pulled taut across the sweeping breeze
In seeming ease my thoughts were freed
In time my eyes didst nowise wellaway

Richard Charles Stevens

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

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