…and our dreams from which our realities are made,
After all, we should have
listened to them;
We could have been of our
own divining…
The layman is short but in
his twenties, and
Long strands of black flow
from his heart;
Two women sit in the
shade, and they discuss it:
Who am I but everything he
never wanted--
The person who makes
ill-wills come true,
And, the bringer of
misfortune and malintent.
I am the dreamer
of men gone sane from obvious madness--
In the
nightmares, our villainous are respected,
the heroes ignored, and
the fiendishly frantic women
Submit to the surveyors
who hide the rich's exact locations.
A man, called the May
King,
keeps track of those who
be making out,
So that those who are
closer to the truth never whisper in the ear,
And thus, he may continue
to hide the true reality from humanity.
Years pass, and he sets in
motion a plan that will make everyone feel well-accomplished,
even though no one has
written a unique song, poem, or built something of high art in years,
so escaping the happiness
offered from him to them,
a villainous intellectual
who knows of his scheme to blind humanity hears.
He hears as his heart
fills with want of escape his arms with rage,
observing the women and
men seeking ways of exploiting each other's lives
‘till earth itself gives
no more and dies.
At the wrong time, the
King of ignorance rises from his grave to power,
and he wonders like a baby
addicted to it's future death while in a guise.
He knows his
opponents are villains of the New World;
after all, we have all met
their manifested destinies and have achieved our fruitless happinesses;
No higher life exists
according to him;
Our mindsets were built on
the sweats of pleasures and wars,
And we wouldn't be here
for their courageous sacrifices.
But the May King would
never say what he can say,
And the ignorant consign
of a fantasy implies that truth is a complicit disease leading to
further fruitlessness truthfully.
The laymen women dine
merrily at an exterior restaurant,
And I am at a balcony,
listening to their melodies and musings:
The two women,
particularly, serenade of the nuisances of their lives,
And the arrogance hated
and the creepiness perceived by the May King.
They dialogue: I am your
dark corridor in your delusional ignorance,
I cannot see him nor
interfere,
And I cannot move to him
or his city,
And illegally I cannot tie
myself to him and say he did this
Of his own hands and rope.
But I do not love him, and
I love myself,
in the dark, and in the
silence;
I am the passive piercing music
in the dark.
He sits in the rain and
lacks everything I ever wanted,
for I was nothing itself,
and he never said he loved me.
