Slaves for The Warriors

The longer version of Born To Win This

The splash of an eyelash cries on the inside

Abandonment of sanity, silence is an island, violence is a sanctuary, death is an apothecary, my voice is swollen, my soul is fairing but ever weary, the canary flies in its cage of lies, cries soundlessly, another brother of an adversary slumbers, dies in god’s condensation, remade, to rots through every day under the earth of worthlessness

Sanctified and automatized, the high rises take to flighty heights to spite the heavens, evidently unquestioned as they enter the stratosphere in their malevolent money funding endeavours, with their demented incentive fermenting, like a sky-scraping, world raping cemetery, a crematorium born from human will, with all the finance invited insight inside the science to kill this world, and crumble the crust until the apples a core

A devil horned metaphor for the matador who preferred beef or pork, and an engine warped by war over the torque of the joy of a planetoid

I am not an optimistic, who scoffs but never mocks the stalking of sacrilege, I master wit, I challenge spit, I drizzle lit the spirits wick and the sulfuric lick of the lips of forgiveness, chapped interaction, subliminal in the uncivil contraption like a signal of silver rivers of consciousness faded in awaited bliss, I am not an activist, I am not a jihadist, I never said anything that I ever was, if I did I’d be dishonest

Ragnarok the colossal prophets of the apocalypse, show the exit to those who drove spikes through our ankles and wrists, those that crush righteous lushness of the luckless inside their fists, collapsed, but wander persisting pondering the right to exist, while we wither and shiver in the cold rays of eclipsed simmering lividly glimmering furiousity for those of lofty frosted dreams that bow down and bleed to society curious in the mirror image, shimmers off the abyss, afraid we are unable to be missed, let us reflect, and expect better of ourselves in the next hell, know the bloodletting is useless, into the future, our culture and ways, unafraid to scream the silent rights of today, fighting away, until we die and fall aside in this kaleidoscope lie for blind eyes, to rise again, and everlast beyond the casket of men, to play pretend in the river, sliver scratching at its surface, and drown and shiver in the purpose of hardship, and hope that our barge will hit it the hardest, in dead waters

We are undiscarded, and honest to polish off the flawless discord like a diamond of remorse look away and watch the shine of garbage, the arbiter of a martyr’s heart starting like a loaded gun among us cultivating since young to sever heaven, and split the sun in two mangle the murderer in everyone,and strangle the hatred, an invisible moon marooned from the drained veins of the patriot, from the words in their lungs, the son of a homo-sapien, the father of no one, the sister of perished, and a baby they carry to paradise

To kill the desolation and domestication of the demystification we call a nation and rebuild in the demolition, brick by brick, acknowledge the obelisk in its marvellous decomposition

To banish the lavish analogies of luxuries apologies solemn at the bottom since the book of Solomon

To call the future our own, and carve from the columns our own stone hearts from the gold of god’s home of omens, out in the open abandonment of hopelessness and dethrone the very moment

To bury the casket of pastures conquered and passion garnished, carnage harvested and past harassment in all of its greatness and hatred, yet outlast it’s ashes, and build a foundation stronger than the cobblestone chambers of our basement

To create something better, for every next years venture, through bastion everlasting every passed December

The breath of destiny shouts incessantly

And speaks obsessively in the tongue of bygone brothers, throttled undone with the gospel of a dying sun, nowhere to run, not fair, no way, undone for anyone in the present day presidentially our mental capacity is overladen lasting unwavering unforsaken, sacred is the money maker

Their endeavoured unquestioned

”Wasn’t there struggling?” Said the well-fed youngling, uttering apologies

”Sensitive, is the excrement,” Said the mechanistic man who held his hand, “They should be forced into a metamorphosis, to be useful for our resources, these feeble beings are copious, slaves for the warriors, no one should cry for the hopeless.”

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.

Reviews

[Chryiss]

Such striking, defiant language and personality in this poem. I loved the imagery, phrasing, and word choice. I only wish this was split in lines and stanzas as typical with most poems. It would better highlight the words and allow readers to digest the meaning and tone. You touched on so much with this poem, Ragnarok, Solomon, matyr, homo-sapien, jihadist, violence, science, God... All of this was so well done that I think it's a real disservice to not split it into lines and stanzas to give it structure, clarity, and impact. Without it, it's like throwing a bunch of heavy, bold, and beautiful words at me leaving me breathless in not a good way with eyes wanting to glaze over and escape. I can pick out so many phrases I loved and yet, they are dying, being buried within this run-on form as one great part comes after another.. Let them breathe and the reader shall breathe too.