Born To Win This

The shorter version of Slaves For The Warriors

The splash of an eyelash cries on the inside

Abandonment of sanity, silence is an island, violence is a sanctuary, death is an apothecary, my voice is swollen, my soul is fairing but ever weary, the canary flies in its cage of lies, another brother slumbers, dies

Sanctified and automatized, the high rises take heights to spite the heavens, evidently unquestioned as they enter the stratosphere in their malevolent money funding endeavours, with their demented incentive fermenting, like a sky-scraping, world raping cemetery, a crematorium born from human will, with all the finance invited insight inside the science to kill this world, and crumble the crust until the apples a core

A devil horned metaphor for the matador who preferred beef or pork, and an engine warped by war over the torque of a joyful planetoid

I am not an optimistic, who scoffs but never mocks the stalking of sacrilege, I master wit, I challenge spit, I drizzle liquid and lit the spirits wick and the sulfuric lick of the chapped lips of forgiveness, subliminal in the uncivil like a signal of silver rivers of consciousness faded bliss, I am not an activist, I not am a jihadist, I am not dishonest

Ragnarok the prophets of the apocalypse, show the exit to those who drove spikes through our ankles and wrists, those that crush righteous lushness of the luckless inside their fists, but wander persisting pondering the right to exist, while we wither and shiver in the cold vicious rays of eclipse simmering lividly glimmering furiousity for those of lofty frosted dreams that bow down and bleed to society curious, the mirror image, shimmers off the abyss, afraid we are unable to be missed, let us reflect, and expect better of ourselves in the future, know the bloodletting is useless, into the future, our culture and ways, unafraid to scream the silent rights of today, fighting away, until we die and fall aside in this kaleidoscope lie, to rise again, and ever last beyond the casket of men, to be play pretend in the river, it’s surface, and drown and shiver in the purpose of hardship, and hope that our barge will hit it the hardest

Undiscarded, and honest to polish off the flawless and watch the shine of garbage, the arbiter of a martyr heart starting like a loaded gun among cultivating since young to sever heaven, and split the sun in two mangle the murderer in everyone, and strangle the hatred, from the veins of the patriot, from the words in their lungs, the son of a homo-sapien, the father of no one, the sister of those who perished, and the baby of society they carry off to paradise

To kill the domestication of the demystification we call a nation

To banish the lavish analogies of luxuries apologies solemn at the bottom since the book of Solomon

To call the future our own, and carve from the columns our own hearts of stone from the gold of god’s home of omens, out in the open abandonment of hopelessness and dethrone the very moment

To bury the casket of pastures conquered and passion garnished, carnage harvested and passed all of its greatness and hatred, yet outlast its ashes

 

Endeavoured like lesion sucking legions of obedience remain unquestioned, forced into metamorphism, we face oppression, born to win this

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.