lou sid lines

For you are the girl who dances naked,
Bathing under the secondhand sunlight as it glistens down in gleams from the glossy golden garb of your false fantasy knight,
Your true sun stolen away way back before you were born beautifully brash eclipse-side of this bare low loveless land - locked down with the divisive fear of the safe and songless in the sick sure certainty of a secure state.

You, who willingly willingly works for the enemy - busily building from within, your own palace prison for the unaccounted army of almighty armoured men,
Each year another skin, another crust, another barrier to freedom’s full thrust,
Forging a flat key from the mellow mettle of your soul’s ever immuring cell,
Silently slid out through those oh so brittle bars - exchange for the solid silver service of some sad suited men’s inspirational rape.

And you...called...me...wrong?

But I am the knight, protected and bright,
Hiding hulked from the hot rays of the pillaged days of those lives upon lives upon lives lying silent as stones in the walls that they built, but cemented with guilt,
Which blocked out the one sun from the place where the world was begun, for the fun of the fair, without care nor share for those whom our prayer has implored the old weight to so awfully bear.

I, who turned my back on the wrathfully confident ruling ranks, went waltzing into a wanton wilderness questing the answer all-knowing and flowing to fill my heart’s solo deep-sweetened sorrowing,
Sliding and slipping, so smoothly content, to the saddened self-sale of my second-choice slavery’s unpaid rent,
Waiting for fences to rise before scaling their sides and then resting in fear of the unfettered clear as it stretched from eternity back to the near,
Where I watched as the Evil grew into a tree which I grudgingly felled for a cut-priced fee.

And you...called me...wrong...

For you are the girl who dances naked,
The one who braved the critical stage, bank-side of Acheron’s unremittingly angry severing sage,
Where you taunted me, teased me, wickedly blunt, from a fatal self-sealing defensive shell, just too well aware that my pallid mal-nourished emotionless corpse would be blazed by the real daylight’s hard heat, my hell,

(Unfinished)


© Lou Sid Linesman, 2006. All Rights Reserved.

Posted by: lou sid linesman / Tuesday, January 31, 2006