S.O.S.

There is no art in these verse I present;

Just loneliness, bitterness, and malcontent.

A heavy toll, a languishing lonely soul;

With no end, nor finish, or final goal…

…But how dare this mere mortal complain

Each breath knows naught of true pain.

Of the isolation, the endless emptiness, and desperation

Of a being we call the abomination of desolation.

The beauty, and the beast, under a morning star;

Who knows what the depths of eternal anguish truly are.  

For as often as I feel this blink is unfair,

Riddled by the nonsense my small mind calls care

I`m left to wonder if: unjust is the sentence for my crime

How much more so is the sentence of Its` than mine?

If it is sacrilegious, all these things I ponder

Then why would One allow this mind to wonder?

Why allow a child to boldly assume,

If such assumptions are to be his doom?

A contradiction, a heart both arrogant and contrite.

How ironic, in the end (at the end) is not fire also light?

And tell me now love, what is the cost

If in life, already, all hope for love is lost?

When will both sexes finally achieve equality?

When will race be realized as merely humanity?

When will we no longer kill for peace-preaching prophets?

When will death and devastation no longer equal profits?

When will the crucifix be remembered as a torture device of antiquity,

Not as the message of one who preached love and neighborly affinity?

Supposing that mankind was created in your divine architects` imagery,

Then when you hate, harm, or kill another don`t you do so to the divinity?

To the martyr will endless violence, end the violence you do?

To those left behind does your faith bring the lost back to you?

Told these fantasies are delusion fascinations and will never be;

And if so, the rapid realization is that: mankind was never free.

What life is left, I`ll suffer, hoping to see the day:

When day is simply day, and night simply night,

When WRONG simply WRONG, right simply right,

When black and white is finally separate from grey.

Composed By: A.D.

SOS= Same Old Shit

A Rorschach of The Collective

The tension is building – Prospero,

But feelings are restrained – Fortunato.

Behind the masonry of these mortals walls

A tempest of emotions rises and soon falls.

Oh the agony! Oh the alchemy!

Chemistry of apathy and poetry;

Equal mixture of pristine mystery,

And measures of perplexing clarity.

Honest fabrications of fictitious history.

The One is the backside of the tarot

Only symmetrical glyphs does it show;

But with a flip, a perspective inverted,

And the nonsensical seen is converted.

When nothing more is concealed,

When the illusion is finally revealed...

The same rhythmic formation of the lexicon,

The same arrangement in the poetic echelon.

...Not as what is seen in each sole occurrence,

But as each own interpretation and souls’ inference.

All art, attractive artifice and elegant duplicity,

No individual perspective, just a collective – we.

Each a pigment in the pixel of humanity,

A mere point in the vast image of eternity.

Composed By: A.D.

(The third stanza (or technically fourth, if we count the single verse) is as intended (that is, it was meant to be grammatically incorrect "nonsensical"). Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy)!

Emerald Phoenix

Guided into the unknown by the Muses and the Source

The art proceeds, without any direction or evident course.

The opposite tones are placed diligently, in perfect matrimony;

Contrasting sounds create a sense of symmetry and harmony.

To comprehend the body must be separated,

Sectioned like the sacrament.

The paper is the flesh, and the ink the blood;

Meaning (Ka) the spirit, words (Ba) the mud.

The mind is the implement

Through which each revival is created. 

Every deity is chained and confined,

An ember (mortality) the spark that sets the gods free.

In death, life is attained and sublimed;

Remember the philosophy: “Do this in remembrance of me”.

Like a bull was sacrificed and its body consecrated,

Or the lion slain (concealed as a lamb);

The immortal-mortal Son of God is recreated,

The Nephilim, a man and also "I Am".

Ancient rites intertwined and disguised;

New ages, the same sacrifices supplied.

Will Ahura Mazda set the captives free;

Or is reality: in veracity, a lock without a key?

Living audience keeps circling, the deceased notes continue in a hoop;

Segments of mystic music, keep the pallbearers in an endless loop.

Melodic verses created the memory, and vipers intertwined impregnate the rhyme.

Symbolic melody, poisoned and obscured by grains of dust, in the winds of time.

Thirteenth hour of the pyramid, the axis is hidden beneath the sand.

(Crucify to resurrect,

Dissect to connect)

Divinity is found in the ashes; or perhaps Perimetr; a poetic Dead Hand.

Composed By: A.D.

This one might be a bit confusing, but I hope you like it. If you have any questions (or constructive criticism) please comment/ask; and I`ll do my best to clear things up (Although I`m not online as much as I used to be).