Land is as sweet as the siren's call.
To those whom roam directionless,
their significance seems small.

Acts of desperation,
sailing the ocean of the past.
Land is but an illusion;
sanity will not last.

I will not turn my head away,
when the fires have spawned
and the king starts his purge;

When the bodies ascend
and the good are spared.

I have no interest in this gift,
as if by some pity
you spared me.
I laid my own path
You,
simply won't save me.

we're just a little light on a radar,
nothing ever more than lost souls.
waking up... but always in a dream,
tethered to the strings, not in control.

i do not condemn those who have purpose in life;
however, one will go blind when staring at light.


 

I will venture downward
into the darkest thoughts of man;
free ideas which have sunken
to the deepest depths of quick sand

Thoughts which remain ancient and covered in tar,
these disfigured monsters repressed our glory.
The poet's burden is to travel further,
find these abominates, and tell their story.

Food for the famine;
an ancient decay.
since my birth I was starved
I've grown weary everyday.

Buried under years of sand
sharp stings from rapid winds.
the desert sun kills all life,
with each itch, births new sins.

Raging on this ancient decay;
buckets of water to simmer the rot.
this stress; a war; an endless loop,
a curse to whomever opens this 
thought.