Rhythms: The Republic – Edge of Expectation by LJ Frank  

The Abstract Process

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.