Quietus in Just
It’s a wild tourist attraction
for the stoic opulent mess,
Atrocity in its burning glory,
joyous and omnipresent,
The fire singeing my wry reaction,
heroically in distress—
Cowering to their nefarious core,
until we eat the resin.
Although I’m frightened and rigid,
but not quite to death,
With all the holiest war torn grief
pinned upon my breast,
I refuse to taste or even to give it
a chance to take my breath—
Whatever it is that I’ve become
has sworn to thwart their quest.
Everything here ends in tears
with sorry sullied intentions,
The mighty deception of the night
would blame its friends for less,
Nobody ever mends their fears
in yellow-bellied dimensions—
Perceptions of the light will change
when it bends to convalesce.
So as it stands; crumbling down,
I’ll climb the wheel to flee,
And though they’ll grin, so shall I,
as it rolls into the sea.
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