The Unscene Poem by John Son

What an untouched phase of life I've discovered.
So far away from the carelessness of everything in this life,
And the impurity of our Earth is just a memory, left behind,
Like an unavailing section in the mind,
Like a place in the world that nobody can see,
Or a golden temple detaining me,
As I look out past the light, feeling what I've dreamt was real,
Witnessing how the partiality and the pitiful demise of life is nothing close to how I verily feel,
As my harrowed past begins to heal,
All the thoughts begin to seal.
And another world I can reveal.
Inside this sight, no darkened night,
Everything's in glowing light.
And the scenery to behold is like a story once told from the mind of an artist...
Where the wind can blow amidst the snow,
Where the past is just the past,
And only the dreams are meant to last.
The hungry are now part of a despicably unfazed realm,
The thoughts of hate vanquished enough to overwhelm,
Yet everything in this world can be present, and far away,
Aside from the impossible sovereignty,
Everything is perfectly as it seems.
My hooks of pain, a smoking gun,
As one by one they come undone.
The presence as impeccable, as... ravishing as the sound,
Like a blind man's freedom to look around,
But all is concealed in this little fantasy of a world
Because everything is just an imitation of an absent scene,
But nothing will ever be the same after I've witnessed what I've seen.
Because an untouched phase of life I have discovered.
An amazing impulse of a selfless desire, with the incessant dejection of a waking cure, and the pure lust of a fortunate life,
Denied for it's hope and impaled for it's prerogative perfection.
Makes as much sense as a bullet to the head.
The lines in the sand tell a whole different tale.
One of endless vindication, untouched grounds, and silent sounds.
No one dares to question it's existence, it's just there....
It just is.
The convicts roam free.
And the innocents eyes can never see,
As pure as the fabrications of it's honest lies,
Like a valued tome where a son is born, and a mother dies.
The lucid array blurs as this faultless world ends;
Nothing is meant to be.
Transposed back into the reality of flaw,
In arrest against the law,
Not even our bleakly autonomous rights are free anymore..
(As if they were in the first place.)
Listen to your battered soul,
We all sink in the distant hole,
Whether we have a choice or not...
Everything will pay it's toll.