Forest Poem by Ethan Moyer

Walking through the forest,
Wandering,
Wandering,
Wandering, drunkenly through the crimson war skies.
Nineteen thirties depression and World War II nostalgia
Rot propaganda on the twisted trees.
Knothole twisted faces
Yelling torture with whipping branches.
Apple trees rotten,
Autumn skies forgotten
Under ethereal, mosaic, moonlit sky.
Salamander stars crawling under wrinkled Milky Way
Universe;
Above and out through
New
And
Ancient celestial
Genesi and
Through death and passing.
The candles of funeral desire surround us with lost
Aztec cities in mind.
Lost mystic gods no-where to be found upon this faithless,
Hopeless,
Terrible
Battlefield.
Pawns in chess move aimless through smoke as
The romantics
Die back home.
The preachers preaching;
Sullen, behind black funeral suits and patriotic ties,
Carry your black noose away from me -
Get Me The F**k Out!

This is where Romeo died.
An artist taboo tapestry,
Forgotten realm,
Once innocent,
Now deprived.

Bring Us Back!
No-one Can Forgive You For What You Do Now!
Million Man Faiths,
Lost To Nothing More Then All Your F******g Selfishness!

Bold protest,
Bring me a new aspect of the forgotten soldier heat.

My soul Dies on fire dancing for no-one.
(lonely and scarred)
I can’t do this,
Alone.
It hurts too much, where will it get me?
When will it get me?
I’m so lost.
The walls closing back in my mind.
This trip is too much,
I’m not even on it.
It’s earth, it’s society,
It’s economy culture,
Pigs and people,
Animal savage thought brought by sacred “god” and the
Religious freaks,
Frightened,
And lashing
Out
Towards everyone
But themselves.
As they think,
“who wronger then you”
An ironic irony
No doubt.

“To weird to live, too rare to die”, Thompson said.

So where is your atomic family?
Where is your panicked American Dream?
Did you see some revolution, or did you see yourself?
Are you still so blind?
‘The wife tends, kids all follow.’,
You and your white collar
Don’t even know what
You’re doing.
You’re going insane.
You’re just as bad as them,
You’re lost, my sad
Friend.

And the poets now dream,
Dreaming, wondering
In the black minds
Wandering beside
Their bedside thoughts,
Preaching from the railroad track bars
While American pie whips back
At them,
Torturing them,
And crucified.

The trees are
The forest of our history…
Twisted faces, shocked at our
Civil War and
Forever tainted
And scared by our traces
And paths...
Decisions, we’ve made in mad blood,
So frightened.

Who can ever forgive us?
What have we done?
The fear of god and the restrictions,
Tied down by our own ultimate rule and greed,
For self conceited sanctuary, fear of what will all come to pass –
What will eventually happen…
If someone only had told them, this game,
It’s not eternal…
And it never will be.

I’ve had it, all.
We’ve got to get out of the forest,
It’s too much.
We’ve got to get out,
We’ve got to flee.
Get us out.
Get us out.
Get Us Out.
Out;
Not to die…
But
Let us perfect our art.
Let us live.
Get us out.
Just,
Get us out.