Poem 1

A porcelain mask gleaming, unscathed, the craftsmans dream,

Enthralled by desire, by vice, and wanton caprice,

Conceited delusion of ubiquitousness, incessant, un-tapered,

In shameful finitude, void of peace.

With twisted grace, verily, worthy of glee,

Fleeing through every vicissitude conceived,

Half-heard truths, half-done acts, all

in some disturbed, some restless-

Some voracious need.



No mask can last, in such hollow form,

Not fortified. Not filled.

Though ignorant of the fate, its arrogance borne,

All for one, some rambunctious thrill.



With a mighty crack, resounding through, a twisted mask begins to rue,

The foolhardy manner it expressed, upon this time, upon its death,

Once unscathed - a glamour new, its twisted smile, bemoans an end undue,

With gnashing teeth it grips its breast, shrieks in this mercy, this drag to rest,

And bows and begs, its reality skewed, fissures deepen as the beast subdues.



A new voice quivers into full blown sobs.

And dreams of the joys of which God robbed,

it of in this life and those past.

The harsh bark of existence never to last.

Lacking in virtue, absent of vice.

One face blest with glory, the other, price.



With a hollow dark - permeating mind;

Senses dulled, and rendered blind,

To any and all, joy or peace;

Whilst never disturbed, fixated on Cease.

A moment in time extended beyond reason,

With a traitorous soul, a subconscious plays treason.



So deeper we delve into a cyclical essence.

After one great flare: eternal obsolescence.