Static Evolution

Was begun to end

And no path will lend a single red cent

Save the path at the fore it was meant

Though at a point it will bend

Make loop and resend

Energy back to the place it began

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

Our karma set forth, what we doeth we must

We must or it kills us

But kill us it must

Because our time was spent exhausting the vent and thus

 

The lender that lent

The owner of debt

The blessing of breath

Has made an investment and expects what’s been spent

To flood in the scents of profits

 

Prophetically vised

The vision revised

Rewritten comprised

The sorted devised

The neatly surmised and categorized

Story apprized

With our demise

Was quite simply put…

 

A token

To all that which has been spoken

Now back at the fulcrum the balance of power was stolen

Less life to be lived than was told him

A promise unfilled with actions to build, and woven

Into every concern explosive

The tongue is a powerful weapon both curses and blessins creatin a mess in the mind and the body with soul in

Just no body knows it

Thought that road would be golden

But loath in the cold hearted notion

For holdin back the truth of emotion the channels now frozen and swollen

At some point in the life of a poet

A poet will find himself in a rut

Complacent

Grown stagnant

Erase it from memory where times spent

A record…

A record…

A rec…

a…

A record that’s scratched reliving a phrase it cannot see passed

Is the same as a writer whose taxed on his ass

Vexed on a topic

Acute microscopic

Translucent the answer

No power to stop it

The logic unsound it could be psychotic

Playing that record that record on scratch till I’ve got it

The feeling on top of is nearly narcotic

Searching through bones on optic atomic

Vibrations symphonic revealing the object as not to exist on the plan of R sight yet

Which, brings us full circle to the point where it’s chronic

An onslaught of dead ends that still, are not gone yet

But like a good writer

The depth of a subject is seen as a challenge to subvert and erect

It’s almost a precept to learn from the last set

Come to conclusions assimilate knowledge in the midst of the wreckage as record skips message these hopeless of questions fill in the vestige of poets intentions to finish the best writs yet life continues to push right on forth not waiting for us to make it all work

 

Now the “Garden of Eden” a mystical theme

And the “City Atlantis” to be sought and never seen,

!!OUTLANDISH!!…

But all that I mean is the reach is at hands width

Should I choose then I’ll have it

But somewhere we get lost thinkin our dreams are forsaken

And what cumbersome damage has surfaced and landed?

What troublesome stanzas have wrecked with this havoc?

Is that the left and the right are the faceless

And though they still hold the spaces in our brains should we take them when we know their unanimous inanimate ends are devoid of profitable options which leave a poet stuck lacking homeostasis

The basis, theses days and ages aren’t far from the places of ancient

The slave ship the whip the cage and these cases are no longer adjacent to these days at minimum wages

THEY ARE THE SAME SHIT

Can’t escape this tasteless pace of changeless changes  aimless pages written phrase missed biased ages waistin souls spent

And this waste is piled on shoulders pound hold up no where right to turn left

Can’t escape this spaceship

Know I don’t belong here

BUT HOW TO GET AHOLD OF THOSE GODS I HOPE ARE UP THERE I DON’T KNOW YET…

 

Dreams are fadin quick from traces to traceless chase this end to its endless ends……….

And…

Find…

Myself there…

The unstoppable force, tunneling through the immovable object

And I thought to stop at, my forgotten prophets, reliving topics, from stethoscope to chest harmonics

The heart is

Of course the hardest instrument to tune and mimic but once it’s accomplished and accompliced with lyrics

A story unfolds and fades into focus

The laborious journey of a poet’s whose guns stick

On topic and sees it through to it’s finish

Because there is an end to the wastelands of a writer’s frustrations where those frustrations are exchanged for a days pick in the orchards of genius

Where all meanings are found

Statements are sound

And an era of quest is given some closure

As a linear thought is now known to be round

For it ends where it begins

And begins where it ends

An thus…

Is my…

STATIC EVOLUTION