The Prism of the Futile Mirror of Vanity
Run away train of dominos in flight
Ahead of the curve, ahead of the light…
Dust particles in air and a pinch of salt
Futile – it isn’t, it isn’t, it isn’t my fault
I yearn for blood to spill out of my veins
Cut me quick, let me die, not live in chains
I breathe in lung full of exhaust fumes sweet
Hear you the slippery shuffle of feet?
Corroded artery, the sound of knives
We all live such desperate lonely lives.
Mirror of Vanity
Splinter the glass, let veins preciously spill
Quicken the blood, I feel a deathly chill
Sweet fumes of exhaust enter my lungs, hot
Feet on wet floor… can you hear it or not?
Hate the lesions on the brain, need a nap
Tardy response, drink the coffee and snap
Spoon out the tissue, milky sugar white
The moon spreads the shade of the febrile light
Knives sound hushed against the arterial wall
Our lives – so lonely, so desp’rate – we all
Sound of knife against knife as blood flows free
Spilling drops on the moss against the tree…
Prismatic corrosion – the eye explodes
Arteries of desperation – hope grows…
Salt in the wound, dust in the eye, clear sight…
Reflect the great truth – see the other light
The futility of the closed elite
Sound of a billion marching naked feet!
Moon has risen, have a cup of coffee
Smell the bitter sweet scent… can you now see?
The mind’s in shadow for but a heartbeat!
Already it senses its own defeat…
Death … splits in the glassy prism … of nonsense
Illumination through hope’s constant lens.
October 5, 2009 – Konrad Tademar