Illusory Movements

giving a description would be like "asking a masked man who he is"

Illusory Movements

 

Ineptitudes elite group, with no sect to savor,
degrading what's next an greater,
shaping mesh with razors,

at ground zero for a profound hero its death to traitors

an the see through, that bleed through

the steps an labor of riding on the escalator

cuz the backstabbers backdrop over hangs my pile of s**t,

its not to say, not till gone or either wrong, exiled and missed,
he prayed with the unforgiven, his repents in hell

bygone be bygones, stab his heart, all that’s left is health

for those who are left that see poison in the aqueducts

poison in the masks we f**k, poison in the acts of 'us'

I spell Us wit the ‘you’ who glance back only to save your skin,

Not afraid of sin, alright.. now let us engage a whim,

that when looked at encased in bins, of recycled days of men,

with no second chance to trade them in, will we prey with him?

 

Rhetorical implications b***h…^^

-

 

Its said ya goals fulfilled, when the retched tones an smell,

Turns to a blessed Peonies field, righteous ‘Ode or’..was he never known to kill

‘Induced’ into a ‘waste’full epitaph, only in death: hip, nose: is sealed (hypnosis)

-

Excrements

rudely shoveled into waterfalls,

 

fumes seep, hovering the harpers shawl,

(she removes the garment)

Polluting hunters in an armored car,
(u can't soothe the darkness)

were losing what we haven’t bartered off,

to the affluent stomachs of them wanting Gods..

our muse is scrumptious to a fostered law,
(just peruse the parchment)

and disputes is bloody in a fathers squall

Rivers dilute, when sons' s**t in a martyrs' stall…

 

All in all:

 

Excrements

rudely shoveled into waterfalls

-

 

A blacksmith singeing blades to temples,

condemning fates resentful

Whether

ya backstabbing friend will stake the metal,

or he’s a repenting Mason peddled..

you will still bend then break, or rebel

cuz
the morgues dimming traits is deviled,

all in all the ending chase is settled

In the rise and decree known as a Greek tragedy,

fear an pity, smear the city, each soul is a meek travesty

from heaven to hell, traveling to each home till ya seek majesty

woven theories, knitting wall to wall, in-between, its Zeno to a Kings tapestry

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Without A Primitive Axe, Is It Simple In Math

Or Chauvinistic To Act, In An Instance Of Wrath,

Splitting The Pacts Of A Patriarchs’ Intrinsic Flag

Into Infinite Halves?