untitled reasons

 

I met wit a spirit child next to an upturned library…

she labored with sweet words sharp as swords,

deadly melodies of theoretical ethos…

she was of chronicles written in dreamt pages of philosophy…

a philosopher of idealist ethical values,

she was valueless and penniless was her middle name,- framed with burnt cover paged books of truth reasoned as sonnets of law, psychology, and the striping of mans true Identity ,-

then truth wasn’t law but proof of law,

and  law of proof in proses.

 

And In the eyes of merchants with loaded guns,

she is the fear of death, but the bravery of victory…

she is the synergy that drives their souls to move forth to fates misconsent…

but to the dramatist of theatrical slaves she sieve motion and make it an ocean of their radical truth,

proof of their existence, distant destinations is were their ambitions lay,

frozen perks of times graces their quest, they are mislead by their own myopic truths…

and this is proof to them…

 

In street corners she’s art, parts of petals that grow upon concrete roads furmished with bloodstains of those that have passed…

puffed by worlds of wars that live in them and call it reason to breath, and bath in the bosom of SELF…  

the notion of scrap… the ocean of factitious oaths of truth, truths that are tainted lies…

 

I’m tired…