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Canto 3

I think as I am becoming,
Not certain of my future,
Much less my present.
But my past that’s the thing.
So the thinker thinks,
Weighted down, scurrying crablike,
Into his nebulae of hot air.
Expounding coldly,
Cutting certainly,
While holding truth at bay.
Dusty tomes of synaptic beaten paths,
Never wandering too far;
In earnest!
In earnest,
Ever wandering astray,
Synaptic explosion,
My hearts on display.
A shudder encourages my body.
A sigh escapes irreverently,
Words rebound posthumously,
My ego is at stake.
Remorse, no morality,
A sign he holds up high.
I've been here before,
A question.
A sigh.
Ever increasing tempo.
For time ever lies,
I've been here before rings clearly.
An image upside down,
Of a man smiling a frown,
Unsuspecting the difference,
Hanging on the tree of me,
Shall I never die,
A sigh.
I've nothing to loose,
Say's the man who should know,
The man who sold his soul.
I've studied the finest,
Synapses I've gained.
I've become a convalescent,
Intellectually maimed.
I've answered the question,
Of knower and known.
I've discertained the answer,
Of all I've been shown.
I've gained no respect,
A criterion you know,
For public opinions,
Not part of my show.
I judge all the laws,
And use those of need.
I've kicked the ascetic,
To show him his greed.
I've signed the manifestos,
Of revolutionary content.
I've grimaced in the faces,
Of children who lament.
I've bastardized principles,
And noble beliefs,
To gratify the deceiver,
Of him do I reek.
Yes, I am the deceiver,
Stealer of the soul,
Peoples beliefs,
Are part of my show.
The Full Moon is my symbol,
In lunacy I dwell,
I beckon the innocent,
To the ravages of hell.
I rule in this kingdom,
No trespassing sure,
Only those who are damned,
Do I procure.
Evolution I teach,
Man-Apes are you all,
For I was Lucifer the Star,
Before my fall.
The thinker he thinks,
Fear clutches his breast,
His heart pounds madly,
As if in jest!
For his ears seem to ring,
Of rememberings past,
His hands twitch remindingly,
Of the first and the last.
I remember he cries,
Abject fury in his tones,
Of a bridge over the swamp,
You call your home.
There's a map of the way,
Maybe yes, maybe no.
The devil he chuckles,
And says I must go ...

4 Jun 13

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stella word trip. divine.
 — raskolniikov

glad you dig-it Raskol... thanks for the readZ
 — AlchemiA

I think you've just about covered it all here For me this had an echo of of Bob Dylans early stuff

Larry in the basement mixing up the medicine Lark
 — larrylark

thankS larrylark, it's one of my older pieces from my youth and would have definitely been influenced by these folk rythmers ...
 — AlchemiA