2011/04/14

I, Apostate - 2011/04/14

Shining baubles tempt my eyes
To see manna for the faithful
Ever tumbling from grey skies

This is the key to the lockbox
Where your concerns are housed
Unaffected by steadfast clocks

Psychedelic visions so spawning
A defect that viciously infects
Leaving ones lucid slow yawning

Pale beggar occupies a sidewalk
He neither moves nor now speaks
Within the draft of white chalk

Armed with just our imagination
Faced with a fast darkening fog
Looking only for good vibration

Legal narcotics stymie the tide
Of logic marching toward battle
Leaving offspring eager to ride

If this is our radical progress
Why do I wield my broken shovel
Digging in wastes of our excess

A broken spirit now drives lust
An eclipse of verifiable reason
So I leave or submit as we must

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