All Things, Arbitrary

if i fall
from this earth

would it suffer
me, no longer

if consciousness will sing

amid the ashen dawn

to lay
this latent life

upon the lei lines
once asunder

would then prayer prove its purpose

for what conscience
beckons nigh

as fools

who feign forgiveness

or the martyr’s stoic stance

hanging ropes

loosely fastened

by two ends
reflecting truth

spending endless realms of interim

in morass
contrived of morals

with vociferous intentions

as a madness

through our youth
ever squandered

by the fate of hollow fears

in the absence
of the here

and never morrow


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