Forever is an Invention

Long corridors winding, taking care to narrowly miss the others, labyrinth of star cross lonelies.
How one's end is this place of reason is beyond my tolerance.
Huddled in trenches, playing house in the gullies, our make believe until the grenades are set off.
It astounds, this digging with not a place for us to go.
The masses have crouched here as one collective for no existing greater good.
There are none left to debate the unmentionables.
The metal rod has cast shadows upon ceramic walls, reflected by some unseen light source.
Dark upon dark. Dark upon darker.
The noon time reflection of the glowing opal sun, but with cunning likeness to the moon.
Not the traditional burning orb, but kin to the green.
The rise of the empire reaching its peak, only to be sold before the fall.
Squalor, the end result for those who have broken their backs to be kings among us.
Chess pieces in their territory. One square to the next, and annexed.
Black to white and back again.
I am the pawn, you are the knight and the queen is nowhere to be found.
Shackles fallen clatter to the floor like coins of bastard nations.
Passing from hand to hand, through nimble fingers slipping, falling prey
To the cracks between the calluses built up over black prince witchery, despots overthrown.
To lull royalty to sleep on harp's wings and fragile notes, money comfort sounding.
All before slaying the giant and cutting the locks from the nape.
No, no sleep for the weary, pressed on, indentured, not to be settled by death's ransom note.
The clutch of the Shylock for a pound of flesh, trading life's parts for a flesh dance with the soft lady
Who in morning's light will steal the corners of your soul.
Dust built up on heels of boots cracked with age, but still am I standing.
The Sandman holds my card, tied with pink ribbon about my wrist, hanging for my callers
It swings heavily, the great pendulum, begging the question of gonging resonance.
The skull in hand with the hollowed out eyes asks the headless horseman for his limbs.
All given up in a fury of midnight surges, a hand dealt ill by the house.
Every nice past and since, the cubes dilute the arsenic at your request.
Veins harden like warm weather icicles, twisting a web about your vitals.
Let not that book be read.
The losing ticket crumpled in your grip as the shouting escalates, the climax draws near
With gasps of undulating passion, take over to shake down the fibers.
The sheets damp with unheeded slumber, twitching and rolling from the waists, have no other direction.
White-washed and ink splattered, groaning with pains from yesterday's news.
Held in palm, in the bush, in the basket, relieving of sorcery.
The Source and the Oracle are one in mind & body, breaking what's left of the spirit & ever-quaking sanity.
The poison to be bled from leeches friends into stone basins at the edge of the cliff.
The seasons know what we've done.