Posted by Erik Moshe on Monday, September 29, 2014 Under: Rhymed Verses

Does the truth inspire? Yes…
should we exhume ill will from the human dialect?
social constructs glow blue in the carrion zone
each level of consciousness varies in tone
two beings, holding hands at the table - a family home
The spout radiates goodness; the purest of fluids
soul cores tune into the chimes, searching for music
A murky delusion, the crescent of land a fertile protrusion
even the bones of long ago sages - burning with hubris
as we learn to be students of life and its beauty
Then we can grasp survival - why we fight for it, truly
as we learn to be students of life and its beauty
Then we can bask in recitals - as disciples of unity

Who are we? A mere gaggle of compassionate stragglers
May we crash on the road to monotony, rattle the passengers
encourage the caring for others and preparing for bad times
Our parents, our brothers, as praised as American Fab Fives
be practically seraphim during an era of class pride
ditch the sinking feeling of apathy… the stairs didn’t capsize
Insensitivity and indifference; the invective of our culture
sooth the elements with water, let it settle, drip and wander
Remember, become a metal-fisted martyr if a house is on fire
The misfortunes of others…become the collective sadness of Gaia
quickly, offer rain coats on a bridge to the weak and soaked
to the meek and broke -
then notice you’ve been ordained with a Fijian boat
and a secret cove to sleep in and roam
there’s even a water fountain - both modesty and genius flow

I look at success as though it’s never in reach
with a cool focus that’d bring steadiness to hysterical speech
I place others above myself, left the pedestal seat
sowing consideration into the grasslands - wellness is reaped
No bedlam, just peace - cause civilization is a story of hives
be happy that they made it out of this strange territory alive
Succeeding is one thing, but watching others rise to potential
as lively an art of form in motion as tai chi and ken po
Life is in limbo, but who’s the man with the stick?
is love crafted from wood, granite, sand or a brick
can it be foreclosed on and turned into an abandoned abyss?

In : Rhymed Verses 

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