Telling me what to do

the red behind your eyes

leading the pointed knife

with silver hands

drawing deep into rancid flesh

the bosom of your god.

I'm so very tired

wishing I could sleep and dream

fancy dreams for you and me

but when the visuals turn dark

I find that I was already

in the warm throes of slumber

and my pining thoughts

were nothing but a child's wish

for something blessed on Christmas.

All I want

is a peaceful life

yet I am held prisoner

by the banalities of the mundane

I work I shit I eat I sleep

inspected by my fathers ghost

never reaching the pinnacle of affirmation

always wallowing in quicksand

avoiding the keen strike of the viper

laying in wait for those

who wish to partake of the fruit of knowledge.

Will we ever know

what we were meant to?

Will any of these questions liberate the damned?

Wait, what?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

getting weird with it, as the poofs of old.

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