The plague has fall'n
over the land.
From town to town,
Treks one man,
There is a cure,
A decieving hand,
Alternative arrival
to where salvation stands.
Redirect, retranslate,
Instincts programmed to procreate (recreate).
Redirect, retranslate,
When the ashes settle,
The smoke will dissipate.
Come one, come all,
Relax from weary trails,
Listen to whispers of fate's past,
Caught within tall-tail,
By similar means,
horse's whimpers get trapped in stable.
Indeed a fable, that which entails,
A hero to admire, admonish, adore,
A belabored journey, that which explores,
A land torn as much by disease as by war,
Where corpses of plagued soldiers blanket the shore.
Victims scatter the shore.
Witness all that's endured,
by those lucky enough to be sure
of their immunity from those observed,
as they helplessly watch the waves consume,
the thought that their humanity can be resumed.
Non-alleviated symptoms
characterize and cast into a mold,
the fabric of collective unconscious,
tidal force, that beckons and calls.
If there is no discretion
how can they know,
effort is for naught?
If life is truly sacred, why
Is the opposite sought?
Why then is the opposite sought?
Whence comes revival?
Whence comes rot?
If there is no discretion
How can they know their efforts are for naught?
Perspective, losing all value.
All of my time spent alone.
What happened to all my regret?
Buried and dead is the past.
A sober mind is forgotten.
Distortions, bending perceptions.
Tossing a line into the void.
Simply in spite of myself.
My lonesome self,
I suppose it would be a factual statement,
to say, I need some help.
I guess.

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