the vanity of disillusioned humanity,
sewing threads of reason through mental fabrics
forged by the hands of mad men.
Which world are you in, besides your own?
Pretending to be known by the gods
by whom you measure your stature,
as though you are any more real than they are.
Illusion is the afterschool crack house
where self-righteous misfits play house
with dreams of grandeur…
where pockets are lined and
wills move time and
hearts crumble like coals over open fire.
Ruled by desire,
wrapped in excuses for the abuses
that line their souls; each one unfolds
fiction in self-worth scripts.
Tales float from these crypts where
dry bones frame the flesh and
anthems raise up from the depths
to pierce the soundness of existence.
All this nonsense in the air; it’s only fair
someone stands in defense of truth.
Under this roof of complex notions,
strained emotions, swimming spirit in
faith’s love potion; I sit alone…
a single presence in this ocean,
succumbing to my rule over this realm
in parallel to others who know
we exist in our own
self-conceived worlds of insanity.
Crossing hairs over and under
the teeth of reality
combed from our roots, we
swallow the substance gleaned
through those chutes, and settle our appetites.
A respective mold of “my” rights
rest justifiably in every twisted frame of mind,
subconsciously aligned with all that ever was
or ever could be seen with “my” sights.
Beyond the eyes of the vain,
outside the breadth of the sane;
the very breath of insanity
is the essence of life.