Sand – Page 9 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

The Kingdom of Heaven Morally Bankrupt Stock Sale…

godian

No divinity it is all a show, for everything a price no wonder, new spiritual cuts grab a bargain shoppers heaven is now on sale on Sunday, bidding will start St Peter is the judge & auctioneer. Heaven is underfunded god is at large elsewhere in another universe.

It is said the pilot has left the plane, no safety valves in the volcanoes the lava about to blow there is poison in the ant hills, we are not so busy, no workers cannot escape the blocked holes, for the last time leaves have fallen the last one on Christmas Day.

Of The Barren Lands…

The new course of the Barren lands and chances for the pioneers of clean lands, free from feudal infusions and control. A new land where higher intelligence brings forth clarity and peace only selected population’s remain, never again was the world populations to breed themselves to destruction, harmony and peace were descending in a gentle cloud, Mason Cult .

I laugh, I cry, People Watch Me As They Walk On By.

Lying in state a quick break from the worm, breaking away from the underpinning I am ripened like an old joint, cursed with dodgy seed, trust today and tomorrow I live here moulded in a corner curled as a rat in dead nest.

The night faded and the day lifted I am a down in my own time, I laugh, I cry, people watch me as they walk on by. Life not so serious if your sat with me, I read the newspaper, cut the eyes from a politician, pretend I’m deaf they never listened.

I’m a mute mug shot of madness divine enough to be different no vanity in the vagrant, I am waiting for them to take me all away, wish I could stay up in this corner I lived around here as a boy with rampant laughter and nothing else but joy Mason Cult .

The Sand Casts Over Me

A dance in the dune of mystery, sand peeling skin wind playing droplets drying abandoned hair, absurd waves prance as horse spirit thieves the long and slow beginning of the end, moonlit emergence stars crashing into view, a magical tracer.

Comets field the sky, strobes of my eyes resting forth into oblivious regions and extreme unknown, that’s somewhere else, a mystery, a show matters not. The mass that makes the night I lie down to sleep as the sand casts over me, the wind like the spirits shadowing me home to rest. Mason Cult.