We Know Not What We Do

Leaden by the undercurrent of degeneration 

To be ushered through a mortal coil of especially

Encumbered atrocities heightened by the 

Contemptible shadow’s

Cruel spell of youth only to be stricken by the

Developed hand of time: 

Severed by mountains of fate,

Sewn by fields of chance.

As the blind seer longing for the fickle word of

Power is darkened by sunlight,

His fiction begets fiction by the simplest, 

Echoing silence among the crowded void.

All listen and all are tricked;

Beguiled by his fraudulent wisdom with broken 

Severity and misspoken import.

Complexities proliferate:

Here, there is no greater fear than fear itself,

But never speak with outsiders;

Each man has his price, but not one man may be 

Purchased; the heads of authority preach 

Countenance but bias societal delineation.

Yet none shall break these Gordian values

For fear of flagrant fading into an abyss of 

Unenlightened plebiscites.

Words ache while fires redeem;

Each will be strung in stagnant irreality, 

Like Odin from the Ash Tree; 

But amid all of this, I am 

Sworn, swaddled and swept 

Through history in our unbeknownst,

Though ever swelling, 

Fortune of dearth.