by LJ Frank
the rattling of swords
is the Republic’s currency
mid the vortex of a winter’s march
tomorrow entertains a dubiety
for the blood’s lust arrives in colorful fashion –
a matter of money, time and ambition
and to revolt is a meme for power
atypical for the impoverished
lest nothing else remains in life
except one’s ideas
hung like a pendant of rose thorns
around the neck
and the bleeding drips from the soul,
inner peace is culled
unless
it’s left without a home or dwelling
or food to eat
and clothes to wear
a haunting realization begins to foment
that compassion is just another word
with no revelatory message to be found
fleeting minutes here and there
the human architect of reason seeks
to be enlightened
knowing it may lead to an unsettling
more so than superstition and astrological signs
that feed a spiral of manipulation
and warnings of upheaval
that are blatant in their denial,
while lies damage the heart
in ways indiscernible at first
unless one has a memory
the wordsmith is more acceptable
when repeated often enough
like a dirge that is on replay
conspiracy outbids verity for attention
conflict becomes a normal condition
and peace the anomaly
even at the risk of technological disruption
the child of the mind becomes a spectator
watching a game of chess
between technology adversaries
seeking to line their pockets
and knowing the other side of the coin
is the face of accountability
and creative intelligence is an algorithm
but will the amalgam of emotion
be revealed like an exotic story
from a post-modern Scheherazade
and shall the design come with a soul
for nobility, in reality, is a thought-right
not one of a birth
to be healed is only effective
for the person who sees the need for healing
and a dystopian verse walks down an alley
waiting, with the want of more lines
to be spoken
still the heart may find itself alone
to ponder
on the edge of expectation
and seeking its own voice
while being drowned out by others
entrapped
in the cacophony of comparisons
to measure thyself against no one else
is an anathema to materialism,
and the melancholic verse takes a swig of rum
to drown the besieging fervor
for what does the voice within suggest
but to pose a simple question –
to ask brings with it a new dimension
like a person sitting on the edge of a cliff
watching an approaching storm
and finds being momentarily daunted
by the strength of the tempest
and whether it will erode or not
the rocky soil underneath
provoking one to evaluate
the reasoning behind expectation.
