Tell me- Do you not see the crumble in these bricks? Their passing silt; sad should the wind know of this. You see, don't you-The cracks- they spill the truth of these walls.

Look with me Brother. Watch as the pavement waits unmoved in our years; our sweat not dripping from these nooses. Watch how calm our necks placed between them.

And at the ringing: still ringing shrill – no waver should try divert our step. It is to the assigned now, you see, for all in shackles; Swiftly to the cells in which we sit, forever not knowing why. Dabbling in thoughts we should not think.

Do you know why, my Friend? Why this youth I so possessed, should be tarnished, switched in night as I sunk in prospect; ill-interwined conjecture – Please, rid the Contrite of birth upon naked Culture.

And do not ask of those Dreams, it would seem I have forgotten now, why I ever dreamed. You see, I look into those gates as I trudge down before them, the Winds silencing the rushing of the Roads. Mad men-running free and sane toward emptiness and...

and then Normality shoves me in line again. Friend, please quite the Crowds now: they mutter too Contently upon their scripts.

Dead Bronze bears its heavy stride - and for Her he carries forth our emblems Eden's glow.

Evenly gallant, and far beyond perceived. We are our own Depiction.

Yet still, on our sleeping Isles, for the flourish of Majesty. He would die.

To let humble heads hang sweet once more.

To Bow upon with worn eyes: for what more is Heaven than Demise.

Not thrived at with farewells, but Sins lead by Chapels Kingdoms wish.

For this, leas Shines over the Golden seas

- bless't onward to our Resting shrine

Once gazed, once fraught; unsung under a Spangled bliss.

And our Death will be the archaic offering: "O' of course, for this you are missed."

Then was armour worn by the boy, and forth, etched his lies on fatherless Sons, as truth.

As I slumped into rest; into Fantasies of night's Dreams, so empty was the Voice of my Liberty: others Liberty. those ugly Dwellings of strange faced men I wished to die, for those screens told me why. O' should the private homage of War say– to free a people?

The percussion of the bombs; those groaning Sirens of strafing plumes, plummeting like Cirrus clouds overhead. The harassed screeching of the Guns, Machines jumping bullets into the earth in a Cluster of thrashing dust, boring out the flesh of those; smothering up the air with spits of silt and blood disguised in black.

A mad infused ferocity of screams; the Horrors of deranged, clipped-macabre perfumes, stirred in a mixing pot of rifle Flash– fringing peripheral– and All minds blazing in a spherical stove of Silent alarms; a Blotched out memoranda of Follies dwelled on in violent Reels.

For the floor is now a roofless grave of Children, Fathers, Uncles– half-human; a mesh of limbs sprawled across battered Pavements, licked up by a Battery of mayhem. But look at them... their eyes are dead now as they were before, cramped wicked into a forced Congregation, plastered to the ground; clothes incinerated– those naked flesh heaps of things– monstrous things that had held breath in their lungs, laughed like us.

Curtesy of King, Queen and Country, Patrie, Uncle Sam and so on a so forth. Hammered into the Hero who saw a floor of rodents, because his mind had been stolen by the Epithet. Those things brandished discoloured faces to him, and wore the Uniform of the depraved.

So– good hearted, Righteous men; Heroes so we must say. Who hang on Hues, as would I; Seeing those and no more– Kill, maim, Torture– In my Name and in Liberty.

Soldiers: Shoot at the ground if you must, for the barrel can't rise fast enough to bludgeon those evil. Shoot at him again– at his chest this time, to Scrape out from his soul an unwilling passion of blood; wrench out a Monstrosity of cries he had not wished to share with us.

For we are the murderers: Righteous murderers.

Levy me; You Son to whom dictate thees' tone; two-toned, only black; You crude zest of their paradigm. Shade me thence; my satire learn't away, my work induced upon lonesome dogma blocks, led astray. Lead thus; my hopeful temptation and wrap no propounding claws, but ones that yet intoxicate such impervious light, plunders softly our reaps of years; So sweetens thy covetous whine.

Smoulder me You tears by Arbiters grin. Deride my Death in books of will Without will; sick floundering, dwindled endeavour. prescribe them by Nature repulsive edifice of dead stars - and Preach this blame-broken verse; uniformed by all mediocre green, To torment those who know thought knows them best—

Oh how I Scream: Zeal-writhing worm You!

Hold my weary head to them; Scourge my eyelids back by These.

And See: No hindrance now for the Pulse that need not claim Birth: No solemn fears of slacken tones and Lost, vibrant quakes; Wave after Wave of refrain preaching Hearts: Mindless Red tie Hook of Question on Cross; In Post fist of raging Rebuke; Here, where only shudders of grey silk roam Flat graves.

None of whom desire: None given ours.

All in which sense is the slurring of castigation poured; Remarks stumbled from Woven sockets, deranged like statuary behind teeth – Eyes sullen like fatuous Nativity on Pause. Rolling, perpetual past dawns, rewinding Dusk as if Greed plunged between my toes, grappling, Slung like Evil. Battering on a Step, thence from Ignorant forging - Capped by Jingo and all things Lies.

Tell me again, by Which crippling of the Nerves; the Jarring of skulls, ossified like Rage in affiliation. Call upon the bargain of the enslaved; The free – Sad in a Prosaic march, loose like description. All incredulous in a single-file of death: but a prole Dare not uproot his Cage.

The Malignancy of Graves; the Danger past the bars – keeps all similar in solitude. Pushing bricks that build Bombs; ambling in streets that Rehash the soul, toiling to own what you had Made. Born, bereaved like Life in confinement painted Blue, and dancing, cramped between stagnant walls.

Of razor love, the tremor of Serrated do-good and Death – the romance of rubble and sweat for the Garland duper; his chair set in shimmers. And the partisan: by all limbs caught in Paragon persuasion, and sidling a rucked Facade of slanting, impelled by the moiling of Ivory globes.

A slave to the arms that Wrench his Knees forward, in the obscene; For his Hands fell fastened in a damp shawl to the Masquerade Man. And the patter of Drums and Trumpets; his nutrition a wavering moan of Dukes laid out in colour – Staring thick and deep into hues that Glide shameless.

But who might Die to conclude these Noble? Halt them of their filicide fluke behind Flagpole Glory: And at dusk, the sound of the Paladins home; a sprinkle on his Terror. His chest, the Heroes cavern – behold the throbbing numbness of Foreign necks.

Faceless was the Villain he saw in those scripted dreams; loosening dreams, tied up in delusion. The Shadows that were slain, bursting from the walls behind him, Prehensile like his mind. Thus in heads, the Clemency of men unbound from their crimson Fright, squelch at him with the dignity of Alms.

But why still?– the Din of Daylight curfew in minds that question? The Paladin; his home now the Pedant of his own cruelty; a Strange steading of the menial, not hitched.

For Behold, the Garland duper; a man Sunk in deep Sage for the eyes; those Ivory Globes in a twisted thrall – his Chair set in shimmers.