Thursday, June 12, 2014

Elder Statesman

Asking for Muse, he sat gripping the straps on his boots.
He knew the quill would drip mystic passionate truth, and yet
He still advised;
Place your hands on the heart of rhythm.
The soul demands that the mark of wisdom
doesn't get lost before the dark within us.
He watches freedom ignore us.
Tethered to beliefs in reprieve.
As if peace is before us, hands out waiting to receive it's release.
Of course trust in the authority's power is waning.
With the turn of a dial, the circuit's reprisal
sends disconnected worth through the herd with a smile.
Rhetoric is just as much evidence as authentic riff.
Language: merely a means for transmitting messages,
devouring hastily those cowards that blame.
I guess malice can only challenge the sane;
such intellectual drought people doubt when it rains.
Among a withered crop yield, proud of his pain;
it's much too difficult for the victim to challenge his Fate.

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