There are many words in my head but I dare not write them,
For this is another night we lay out fires for the feasting.
Running away when there is nowhere to hide from the blade,
Solo act on a tightrope, where once protective thoughts are increasing.

Lack of pride forbids me from speaking of how sharp the mind is,
Rather be free of it anyway, the world seen by the eyes is so sick.
Nothing redeems the news they blast me down with, fiction or non,
Slipping in visions of the blessed man, synapses are so fast, so damn slick.

Turning open doors into such securely locked jewel encrusted chests,
Returning the violence and lustful lie of ‘wanting’ back into the mixture.
Stonewalled by blackened deals of ancient times we cannot forgive or forget,
These are no longer just our guests we scream, now more a permanent fixture.

Knock me around for my downed status, choke a bit at sipping my sour old wine,
Brillant tactics breed failure when the soldiers have all gone home and retreated.
Air taken in is only available here, in the shallow places of the once bravest mind,
Can we pack away the tools of war and hatred for the enemies, is this completed?

Thomas Spychalski 


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