Scornfully yours.


The evening resembles a plight of ecstasy,

too surreal, too benevolent, and the way my dear

profusely dresses in the cardigan of torn Denim

feels subtle. Are you entirely ready? With your 

brush strokes so hefty, so cruel as it draws humanity 

onto servitude, what is your art, my dear? A way of 

establishing peace or fear? 

Too scornful, resentful, relentless, and the words of 

sheer agony that smells from your paints,

a woe of a widow, and an awe of an oppression,

and under that cardigan of yours, the red gown you wear

to glorify the pretense, to demean subjectivity,

and to derail love, all so prettily sworn upon,

too prosperous and too preposterous 

as you praise the color of blood. Is that hate

my dear? Hate to a life so crude and raw. Should I

call you 'a human', or 'a-human'? 


You see this turmoil of vindication you seamlessly throw

upon me, with your wise words of liberty and peace, 

a sense of disbelief for the swords and weapons

in the hands of mine. You engulf my opinions 

in exchange of my pride and gift me

only prejudice, chaos, repression,

and vulgarity. Is this what I was made for?

The culpable predicament of seeming saints and sages

detrimental, ubiquitous, and paradoxically objective. 

These stripes of trepidation you poison 

with your needles of tranquility,

a drug of hope you inject in me

to shut me up, and give in to your parody, 

your propaganda, your menace. 

My dear, was I just a subject to you? Or worse--

just an object?


Divine is the paradox, a blow of hidden mirth,

with shining epiphany, veiling the devil in you,

rises the sun on a quest to undo the bars,

but redo the wars. 

Dreams of redemption you dream, 

but your thoughts of salvation mask notes on liberty,

and once the night falls,

the dreamer in you lives the hypocrisy! 

Ruthless, but not truthless. 

Cynical, embarrassing, I admire your terror. 

I give myself to your sins this fine evening--

happily!

 

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