More… Mélange…

Dragon I

Thrashing Smashing…
From whence stems such bias?
Coloring all, smothering thoughts
and feelings, meaning seeming semblance
is disregarded due to glaring at differences
in shade… Ghostly, ghastly apparitions of hate…
I peep what they state….
And think, “deepen the debate.”
Look how we relate.
This is dead .
This is late…
Reclaim grace posthaste.
Muddied revolution’s coattails…
Frozen no motion since cold tales
surfaced…
Now bellyachers and sign makers;
finger pointers and proud painters
of everything “other” as satan’s…
Divide and fool…
Generalizations and rules…
Ceremonies to crown the cruel…
Sending monies to buy the jewels
of opportunistic loud buffoons…
putting on a big show for the dough.
For loaves they’re vicious,
as they chastise for tithes…
threatening with the fires…
They’re so suspicious.
But hey, it’s entertaining right,
Status quo Saturday or Sunday
funeral rites…
Yet who am I to stand by the wayside
and write diatribes that waste time
and energy, when a bass line
awaits the symmetry and synergy of voice, thoughts, and heart?
Yet lamentations and celebrations
are creation and dissolution’s counterparts.
Who am I to circumvent what seems fated
to be accomplished
simply to appear easy going,
mild mannered, myopic??
An altered ego when admonished to drop it
by respected sages…
Imagine the Übermensch that caters…
No row…Call me El, Kwisatz Haderach… big blue map maker,
marking the white paper…
with red inked syllables. No Papal Epistles…
Hints in Gene Roddenberry’s Earth: Final Conflict episodes…
The synods; Their sins odd. But soon an evening in the morning…
This son and sun’s synergy will singe off
all the defilements they think of…
Such heads call for an Ichabod send off.
But who am I to send an axe singing at such necks.
No master carpenter am I… Not Yet.
In this vein, I pick up Maryam and start practicing with picks.
I proceed to plant seeds,
hoping it’s not just me
but the soil which is rich.

Daiikiru Akasha Maximillion

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