I wrote this poem about a year ago but didn't get an ending I was satisfied with. It definitely lacks imagery, imagery should be in any poem but still, I feel like I might as well've been drunk writing this, but well, found it in my 32 megabyte jump drive. I don't have any better but you get the point.
Anybody think of a title plz tell me, and it is supposed to be a letter to a person whom I am not going to tell.
For those who like ambiguity, enjoy:a-ok:. I had a very troubled mind back then I realize but now have the right ending.
[CENTER]There is no lucid purpose
with people's prejudice,
and principles that flourish with bias,
leading them to be partizans.
The gospels are morally flawed
with God's fissures
upon study's grsap;
this false, foregone propriety,
and prevenient stupidity,
when hypocrites taint what is laud.
I hear the crooning lies,
but see the distant truth.
It's time to say goodbye,
let life linger with the youth,
the ones who rather indulge proof,
before their ages salvages it by hollow truth.
Because is there a place left to walk in
with an expanse of unjaded lilies?
But that seems rather silly,
and not seen in your time;
for the primordial has turned to crime,
but the son will contrive roses.
Insight is there but wisdom innate,
letting the others be drunken libertine
who would indulge the colours off a vine,
leaving just the green,
and yet you were taken by bait,
and me left unseen.
You impart the rational horizon,
whose wisdom makes you wizen
in the immoral interior,
the sense of an ulterior,
and apprehension as a greeting.
Yet you re conflicted temporal,
whose life wouldn't make me real,
for the reign drowns what is cordial
by defeating the superior with crusades completing.
Its the depression of randomness,
of droning life's repeating;
finding expression in emptiness,
when existing is loud but fleating,
is a task for the vagrant,
the soul of the green,
the mind of an infant,
whos thoughts are serene.
What you offer me
I will not accept,
but I cannot neglect
the inherited frenzy
of the rational mind,
some part of truth over the blind.
Lying above our rank its a disease,
and safely latent is a subtle acquaintance.
Its the flaw of capitalism distinguished in the old,
whose morality lacks the light but sees the gold,
whos virtues are only going to cease.
So I'll never join your cause nor defeat your essence;
Insularity's mensaic martyr and materials martyrdom.
They are the archaic's hire, of bitter freedom;
but still winter's lineage exists in active quiescence.
For when you die,
yes that solemn cry,
that intrinsic sigh,
of pleaing why.
You have to see
you cannot flee
to forsake reality.
Your mind must be of feathers,
construing profound, blissful eyes
that hinder life's latent teathers.
With this, cleaving transcendent demise,
but far from lively aethers.
And only then will you be ready
to fulfill fealty by ceasing wealty,
to give up reason against the season,
for steady, lulling cognizance.
And when you're dead
never will your incense
permeate round you,
that creation's curfew
gone from your head.
Yet within demise
fathom the moral whys,
the cantic cries
of green filled ayes,
and mourning sighs,
that will give rise
to the start of surmise,
the dread of surprise
and diseased daedal eyes,
which will be your pride and compromise.
You see, as I lay this upon your grasp
life is a labyrinth, death the end of the maze.
Conceitful but addorned alleys;
paths of blue and bloody thistles
mingled slightly with green lilies,
once trample but blazing with false aeries.
Those are life's gauging ways.
Let this letter be an enigma
with a purpose that can always last,
but never portray the sane as a stigma
nor your end of conceiving the past.
Anarchy's the asymptote.
Communism can never be true.
If society is the antidote
then introspect cannot pursue.
And so we were not meant to last,
but for nobody is it their end,
do not comprehend,
reason can only descend,
irrelevant if it transcends,
because in the end
living is an idea.
Life is just a dream,
[RIGHT]-Holiday20310401 aka Ian