They are the kept in their forest created by his sin
often overlooking their brothers and sisters
dazzled by a greed of addiction and want
filled with artificial desire, yet feel nothing within.
Freedoms slowly taken one little piece at a time
they are surrounded, yet cannot foresee
the construction of destruction that will plague this land
as the master designs his ideal Frankenstein.
This country of the kept are hand fed disease
by the giant machine of likes and trending trolls
one must wonder what will become of this once glorious land
but a garden filled with brainwashed puppets from the mountains to the seas.
Her guardians will sell her to the richest Western bidder
while the kept obsessively click in a seductive distraction
and when there’s nothing left but a long grey desert of ashes
her ancestors will weep and mourn the come of nuclear winter.
So what will become of this once glorious land
as the smoke evaporates and the ashes rain down
o’er the heads of the kept in their forest of veils.
*Tonight’s poem inspired by Trentemøller – Chameleon
In the deadened sub-space –
energies of solipsism
from transparent mouths
drift like sand
into the throats of tellers.
Now he shall rise like brume –
fall from his fingers
and into her hair
like weights of a chain.
But they remain in time and motion –
with a drowning ideation
that their dreams
drift like sand
into the universe alone.
With a broom they sweep –
he has gone to the left
while she lies in a field
plagued of white-out
in the deadened sub-space.
The prism of light emanating from the oft intermittent sky caressed the melting patch of snow. Enigma stood aside a desolate road with her eyes glued to the glistening pattern. The shifting arctic winds went unnoticed. Nothing was recognized except the repetition of her echoic memory reliving Amnesia from Dead Can Dance. A breadth of distant memories sat snug in her journal that she tucked securely against her body with her left arm. Enigma began to envision the previous summer and all of its contents. Their faces were revolting blurs smeared with subtle ugliness. The sand was wrought with derealization coupled with melancholia. Persistence of the sun dangled around like little nightmares escaping the manifest content. Between the intervals of a deep and fantastical longing for something more, her mind observes the coitus interruptus and the setbacks of her significant other. Enigma grew tired of believing. Lumping of decades reveal nothing more than feeble hopes and unrealized dreams. Her soul was too complex. Enigma exists in conscious processes that surpass everyone around her as she observes eidetic images fluently. Enigma considers falling into a fugue; becoming a grandiose fabulist so that she discovers earth by telling the past of psychogenic amnesia.