poets – Page 32 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

Are We Lost

As said by Mason Cult holding court down his local pub.

Many have lost the spiritual connection even outside any religion or doctrine one may have been raised with churches that have hierarchy that can alienate many who would be so called Christians. So many turn to the cosmos and think long and hard laying down in the grass looking up to the vast cosmic factory never idle always busy, new stars new galaxies, new habitable planets . How can we be stuck in this evil political dogmatic rhetoric that serves to derail many aspects that would otherwise help harmonise the races and cultures, instead of constantly creating nationalism . The voices of the poor need to be heard wherever they may be and not controlled by a multi party political class who just wish to protect vested interests there interest will only last an allotted time and their souls in time will be replaced by poor souls some of whom are chosen through the Adept Masters, who are poised to save and steer the soul of millions upon planet earth.

English Suntan

Big tits and beaches sand in the creases, bodies cooking in a summer sun, living meat upon the shoreline. Shopping the vanity, cooking the human, what is this worship about why is it healthy to spit roast oneself, any marks out of ten for the decadent English suntan.

Empire

Empire and the colonial intermittents involved in all they can, over history armies columns high, time to control conquer and devour. The toll and legacies unfolding in present days wandering you, aiming in pointless destinies, that cause so much pain and atlas sorrow. Redemption is along a long tunnel with a vista beyond its core for those indeed who search for the land called crystal airs.

Born Again

Born again, did I wish to be a child again, once more at the mercy of a stranger upon another plain. In time the gruelling struggle to adulthood full of anxiety and pain in a future complication. In time where a weather vein, East, West, North or South life or death, what of future society, too busy to look or listen to a million cries of children pained.

Mothers and fathers and the dying cynicism of the no longer sages in their time, but controlling of every facet in their decline. So move on, a vibration curtail, the revival of perpetual misery where a sun comes up and then goes down but is intimately unaware of our unauthorised existence.

Worried

Worried I sat within the walls rigid from this day. I said to my friend wouldn’t it be most wonderful if a ball of chilly mist entered the room it would form a scented cloud in the middle of our
room. I said go my friend that it would be delightful if this soft mist split and headed toward us and slowly entered our inner being, then with the powers of that special mist we would become so happy and well once more.