“Sin
Has Many Tools and a Lie is the Handle That Fits Them All.”
Before you all I stand.
Preaching, lecturing, explaining.
Yet I whisper,
Disturbed by Carnivale.
Your faces are so elaborately
decorated with meandering ivy veins luring me nearer.
Sparkled are your faces with an
antique material,
Beautifying your structure.
Angles of Heaven envy this
masquerade of oozed golden locks of spiraled jewels.
Yet,
Your eyes,
Your eyes,
They reveal your malicious purpose
that barricades itself surreptitiously with your mask,
Your mask,
Which waves in the winds of your
deceitful breath.
But yet I am disturbed.
I desire to accept that these bravura
creatures that are molded in extravagant poses, Upon your eyes,
Your hearts,
Are real in verity.
You are silent.
Why?
Are you suffering?
Yelp.
Please.
Pierce your leader with the
merciless sword that has pierced you.
Become drunk with the glory that
trickles off of my fingers in a cool rain.
I implore you.
Cleanse your eyes.
Let not me see the hypocrisy of your
self.
Privilege whatever light lies
within you to expose its stunning glare in the eyes that embezzle my heart and fill my own
soul with tears of the hovering mist.
Tears of sand stream from my pores,
As you tease my conscience with the
transpiring mirages that have disheveled hope.
No longer do the Heavens distribute
light from the star of life.
It drifts in the sky with rays of
God’s wrath, angrily plucking the drooped petals of
its
spawn.
The dunes arise in tides of the
squall,
That splashes my hands with the dusk.
My identity,
Which lies in the curvatures of my
palms,
Are masked by the solid waters of
this pain.
Be like the stars.
I beseech you.
Let the twilight escape you.
Let it subside and lie aside of you
in spite.
Let your soul capture the limelight
of the night.
Release your clench upon my throat,
And grant me breath of the
rejuvenating liquid that pours from the silver moon.
Your shadows,
Scrawny as they are,
Seep from the clouds as darkened
blood of the innocent.
Are you here to persuade me?
To lead me,
To guide me,
To swathe me by the unknown that
has seduced you?
The unknown that has lost its
mysterious quality to your now acclimated customs of violence?
Oh,
How I plead my conscience to join
you in your march of silk gowns,
Touched gently by the sequence of
sinister lies that creek with their unfitted embroiders.
No.
I am equipped with God’s hand,
Empowering my own to whip the
boondoggle that you participate in.
To only you am I fastidious.
To only me are you no longer gregarious.
Before you all I stand.
Preaching, lecturing, explaining.
Yet I whisper,
Disturbed by Carnivale.
-FMG
