A Requiem For Souls
I am glad that I have kept most tempestuous to the last.
In a shrieking call of a mad audience, the seeds of crudity are cast.
An entertainer with a faint and engaging past.
No more than a jester with hands and tongue tied fast.
A stooping bow with a mocking flick of a wavy mane.
The fête is roaring like a lion at the feet of the slain.
In full view of the juddering moon all unripe with bane.
Distorting a cracked smile to the watchers insane.
Children of a fast embrace and kept warm, away from the heat.
They wouldn’t appreciate and acknowledge such a feat.
There’s dancing and swirling colours lining every corner of the street.
And magic laced with ignorance refuses to retreat.
Isolation in a moving crowd, a things which seemed unthought.
Through the fields of smiling eyes and precocious smiles I fought.
I recalled upon what my teacher had once to me taught:
A heartless man’s invisible, and dead man can’t be bought.
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