Addiction Goliath Futility Tamed
The blood of the wasp lies heavy upon your hands,
Inside your skull lies as vast a land as of that lies beyond your flesh.
Our bodies, as projections of our deepest desires,
Are tied to the mast, cast upon funeral pyres.
All For the crime of no longer knowing what we want.
The blood of the wasp lies heavy upon your hands,
It's too late now for any consolidations, for any plans of grandeur.
Welcome to the city. Welcome to the hive.
Bless the wasp, your pity; it's all that keeps his dreams alive.
The blood of the wasp lies heavy on your hands,
Outside the god's are counting out, out every grain of sand,
What better way to spend an existence eternal
What better way than to keep up, persistence, eternal.
Tonight we face the daemons of our own insanities,
Of our well kept insecurities alongside our horrors unleashed,
To light the torch before the race it's all we ask, screaming profanities,
At those monsters of mist that cloud our clarity, lay our souls to waste.
Be destiny the persecutor or be it the blamed?
Be fate the firing squad by which our souls are maimed?
Addiction Goliath Futility Tamed.
The Black Rose has found his piece of ground,
Never will he leave. The season's round, the child
Unsound, weeping as he grieves. He's seen no
Death to mourn yet at times life's disillusioning thorns
Shred cloth be it fresh or be it worn.
Sour eyes wash over the face of time,
We're loosing sense of ourselves,
Loosing sense of everything,
All we know is to exist, our purpose
To lie complacent upon the shelf.
Hiding within our shells until we crack,
Untill we are released to prosper
Within a wealth of wisdom.
Fairy tale morality's come crashing down,
When perceiving the world with a constant frown,
I awoke this morning to the most startling sight,
The sky as I had never seen before.
Through enchanted eyes it came as little surprise
That I should separate colour from form and
Be left perceiving a world of perfection, of harmony inconsistent,
The beauty of chaos leaves us at a loss for words to describe the morn.
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poem by David Lacey
Added by Poetry Lover
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