Trying Times

The depths are calling

commitment to the stand

layering leverage in justice

bold expression with contestants

like game shows hosted

by a reverend

Stars singed to the heavens

mystics and prophets

pulling plugs from sockets

retrogrades felt like

shooting missiles at a rocket

Respect rested in pockets

while juggling strains of pain

who worship the part of you

left broken and insane

Feel the whistle of the winds

bending reality from sins

late nights wrestling with gin’s

Seagram's foretold the win’s

The sage wondered through fog

with fever felt smog

breaking down broken lungs

from defeats to severed tongues

The race with wind never won

the sun blamed the moon

like saltines controlling coons

the dark nights and afternoons

reading comic books

erased from Looney Tunes

When you sat and listened

to thoughts without direction

does it laugh at your struggles

or carry on luggage

to the soul never challenged

through presence

The chest broadens

from plates that hardened

leaves and greens

clippings from gardens

the farthest lands begotten

tomatoes grown rotten

Passion breached burdens

crowned jewel with feathered turbans

the lost tribes of sacred lands

the darkness from Satan's hands

The sense of since

modern day slavery

the pavement brushed

of blood foreign

the relapse of boring

stage hands puppeteer

the mixed glands

brushing bruised limbs

from stained glass

to hues of beige brass

The misery transformed

into pain lived through ancestors

who fought to live

life on the edge

of a cliff who saw

life glimpse from ripples

of purpose proposing

painted pictures prosperous

enough to post the pain

with lead pencils plastering

patients presence appearing

through premonitions of descendants

of gods awakened from vivid visions

The fallen has risen

the guards escaped the prison

the fog completed the mission

thoughts scream of intuition

inheritances disguised as pensions

derived from preexistence

now dwell on the limbs

of those who robbed grins

from soldiers sight seeing

from broken street lights

forgotten to come on by 10

The men emasculated

and domesticated

for given away power

of precious stones

to rustic ruins

buried in busted tombs

escaping to desert rooms

The broom never swept away

it only kept away the essence

of a gods presence

thrown away for a piece of change

from a president of corporations

without patients and racist

making blanket statements

like taking turban and crowns

only for the descendants

to reminisce enslavement

The audacity of caves

with beast who don't remember

their names but dream of fame

wearing suits and playing games

with the true royals

what a damn shame

The games played in faces

the races that changed places

traps of grave yards

with capital letters

as if the corpse

was a business deal

undetected by state seals

for reptile plated meals

the bone scavengers

who wear suits of slithered

skins snaking and faking

this life is fucking basic