Shiny jail, spotted by glamour's sequins,
You dim your reality under gory gauze;
Beneath them, tragic wounds bare
Your previous masks and resurface
Obloquy, injustices and human pain.
Though the blood gush irrepressibly,
A blind man feels the hack's ache but not
The cause of it, and never will he try
To change his condition because he's
Too much engaged to steer a greenish
Prow made of damn papers.
This pendulum, this murderous hourglass, evokes
Dreamlike ghosts, similar to human entity - maybe us -,
Which sleepy walk towards the Unknown: O dreadful
Majesty, reckless pecuniary hubris, as black hole over us
You engulf us through your immense power; and yet
Pseudo-thinking animals we are but gullibly we hide
Ourselves under the haphazard vestiges. Maybe luck?
However a complaisant Death which enchants us with
Poignant manners and events!
A hideous Hand, a stinging immanent force, squelches
The will and overwhelms - as the firmament for Atlas -
Our consciousness with garish grant. There, where two
Oceans lave different cliffs of the same land, where
Matter becomes essence and life's cause, that fester
Manifests his nauseating derivation. Men's sore,
Mankind's nuisance, as the Gods's wrath that befalls us
Other can't we do expect comply, can we?
Lurid jail, twisted perversion, not yet!
You must grow more, and more again
To be an enormous unmovable plague.
Grim expression of a mortal life, flagitious
Flout labelled by charming mood and faces,
Featherless souls's villainous Holocaust,
Tell us why!
We are all automatons, grovelling and abject
Human's imago - as well as a bark could be
Painful weakness's figure -, and, as throngs
Of mislaid infants, we seek oblivion
Misapprehending it for joy. Damned sloths!
O mighty and fatigued, fundamental oxymoron,
God, ask us what you scavenge.
Bid me, O crippled existence, how a fleeting and
Heavy plutocracy would have subdued us: the choice's
Possibility became a linearly dependent life's condition
And nothing else could enrich our will except the greed,
Unique boldness of a greenish Humanity.
As you will, woebegone and bipedal mass of execrable
Slaves: absolutely confident onto a sure world, sure as
Could be reliable a Sun that wanes to East, you - unworthy
Cancer of a painful comedy - supervise onto a poor
Consciousness, delayed between logical jokes and
Terrible abysses.
©Motes of Dust, Matteo Bona: ogni violazione della proprietà intellettuale verrà perseguita legalmente.
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