End of a home, a palace, a oasis of calm, yet shake it and pictures fall from the wall, open doors, a wind gusts through, all is gone. Return to nature as bricks, shill repose begins as a nighttime moon frames in frame less windows. There are bats random aimless creatures and there is gathering dust, no ones, home a construct, persistent of sentiments alluding to false security. Permanent, it never was. For the only home is your sentimental soul and a need to be free of sin.
By Mason Cult Poet
Mason Cult Poet was born in Westmorland in the Lake District in a farming engineering community. On one side of the family many portions of nobility mainly the Stuarts. Mason Cult did as the herd does and went through the education process. attended drama school and ran small businesses. The stigma of mental health issues blighted him as it does with all creative people, was diagnosed in 2011 with a form of Asperger’s Syndrome which can impair executive function however it has given him a higher sense to see what others do not and from this ability he concludes the world is controlled by esoteric forces and that other interventions operate steering the world we know ro a new beginning.. What we witness we are forced to challenge and the work of Mason Cult assists this