Recalling Beauty long forgotten, changed and twisted, brainless louts
The Earth possesses. Lost are they I once beheld, now losing in
The game they nearly won. While laughing deathly frequencies in doubt,
Perceptions only serve up vomit; plaguing fleas on louts do cling
Within The Golden Age. The mighty hand should sanction urgently.
I watch from windows lost companions: Beauty, Angel, Hassan (kin).
The picture, while preserving only glimpses into memory,
Can, sometimes, mix with our desire to grow a rose with countless thorns.
Intrinsically concealed clichés in cells evoke a sadness free.
The first in view is Beauty, dressed in white, leapt like a rabbit born
With fire inside, waiting, eager like kings to burn at adulthood.
She now awaits her judgement, hoping never will it come with scorn.
The Angel’s soul shined sorrowfully, tempting everyone it could.
Experience has since led them astray. The path will call them back
When jaded saddled hillocks turn to mountains steep. They’ll land with thuds!
My dearest Hassan. Oh! The guilt! Hellish circles wait for their attack.
The changes he was going through can’t even be used!
The personality was gleaming, but ephemeral like barracks.
I should have known, naïve as I was, soldiers crave a battle. Abused
Are those they leave behind. The lights can burn a short while to leave
A smile but Time will tell of winners, also plagues, while losers roost!
I guess I’ve never really loved, the Age of Gold makes sure you reap
What farmers sow. I tried but failed at finding any door at all.
The season dry is almost here, the Wheel reminds my mind to weave
These thoughts of guilt, desire and memory when I am standing tall.
Then, putting down the picture, curtains opened, targeting a scene
Imaginary, Aristotle’s knowledge, sealed and bright, with scrawl,
Transformed me into thinking ‘What is golden about being mean?’
Brooklyn