Wasted Elegance

The whole thing reeks of charming impasses,
Writhing on the floors of never seen adoration,
Earning credits we are too fearful to be spending,
Black masses inside, too deep for safe exploration.

Here we rule, a throne of backmasked intelligence,
Destroying me for every facet of light it does give,
Bondage to philosophy so right and yet forgotten,
Wasted elegance, won’t die but also cannot live.

As we creep along with this created concept of time,
Clinging to our blankets of safety and expected haste,
Realizing we have arrived here from our nightmares,
A foul sour wine, for this my palette of dreams I waste.
Thomas Spychalski

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