Archetypes of good and evil

An apologue of the ones who’s aura is blue


The Flamingos

once, valiant creatures roamed the desolate land

death’s kiss laid them to rest

earth’s ragged breathes barren, her raiment, our coverlet

sprawled bodies of men, their tombs still there

till they rise again and learn that death bears wisdom like a child

their whimsical chants, beat the devil away;

others came because their vows they did not keep

them being so noble head to toe, sterling in their natural bodies

heard the great feral heart purring and thought

what strange desire is being born in the caliginous soul

the deific ones imbue us with idiosyncrasy and novelty;

their impenetrable countenance endure the convert

unconquerable men who sought refinement

and cried when they found it

the ancient voices whisper of those who fell heir to the great work;

clans of holy creatures broached the veils of the arcane

their sanctity beaten into clay

and if the legends were true, every lion heart be dead

their curse on display

our soft mortality overpowers us all;

the flamingo teaches us fearlessness from within the flock

they are reeling, lurching out of heaven’s womb, alone

all is one in the rocking cradle of god;

vast consciousness slumped on the poised scale, seek balance and you shall find

spiritual discernment disclosed in the elms above their azure eyes

in silence we yearn, the imminence of death is our passage to rebirth;

virile men who crawled from the realms of pure fire

their soul rendered crepuscular, slowly clambered into darkness

the divine rescission casts the heart into new depths and brutalities;

though your vigour nourishes, your splendour maddens you

who would have thought, all but saw the crevice was in the wall

a troubled heart began to dream, until it dreamed up the impossible;

what adversity accomplished conceived the most flexible of forms

their ample bodies permit, be reshaped and recast by the jostled rituals of time

then came the centaur and took his first breath;

all those new fantastical, wild beings

as their savage nature would

tarnish their world, spoil their wits

one heard the dulcet bells of covet, his belly burst open, full of passion and diversity;

that sweet plummet was at his own will, declared it upon the succulent saccharine

in her vehemence beauty verifies, that which is overly beautiful shall scoff the eye with suffice

vanity buffed, vanity enamelling, the caricature is in its burning youth, ever so hungry and foolish;

instead of mastering their instincts, all men in time become ruled by them

men who knew nor evil or good, marred and wrecked by their ingrained inclinations

weaved their empyrean hearts and renounced their celestial shapes

in the zest of the spirit the sensualist affirms his delight, little did he know the vistas of freedom were but a vestige, invisible as his faith;

now consider every mind jerks at the thought

a tradition for self pleasure is born

out of those who peddled at the thoroughfare

their body turned into a swan;

who barter natural grace and open heartiness

their soul turned into a crown;

but your pride grows on you, you no longer flourish

inward as once accustomed

our ego is our dominus, our modern god;

for all their peculiarities, we evince the cynics

derided by their own vanity, varnished in their decadence

those misty eyed sentimentalists can only but half create

anger teaches us the malevolent ways;

the inviolate rest, under the sycamore tree

their interminable limbs slithering through the venomous mire and dirt

until the rancour seething drives them mad

how could they, being most memorable for their cavernous eyes

stretch their splintered corpses and rouse to yawn from gaping mouths

that breed quiet resentment, kindling the anthracite

our hearts endure the quietus, till the soft swell of hate ripens enough

hope, beaten from their palms full of prayers

know the end is near, when the salt drops from the cheek

the earth with them shall weep, long night laments for the fallen

but there’s a lone pauper, humming old folklore

not a crumb of bread, not a grain of rice

but a rose in his hand

great beauty lives there, mirrored in his eye

veering winds dare not pelt upon his unbreakable spirit;

there are those who made a home

out of the bitter soul

the dead may rise to create

but hate overflows in the chest of men

no peace found beyond the ambitious dream

bodies starved, in slow decay

know no greater evil

than the shadow of hunger

beside them daily

the fate of the poor

is to toil till bone wreck

every brilliant eye leaps

at the bronze and marble and it’s heirs

and dreamed only to inherit the fate of the riches

some violent hand troubles the land

toil on even when

cast away and forgotten

reduced to lay inert as dust

building the foundations brick by brick

to etch in stone our words

and find a home for our rage

slowly sorrow fades along the horizon

for the new masters and their arts.


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