Hanging On The Lines Of Fate

Fire bursting at the seams of humanity

Drinks in souls of a withered plant.

Drifting into balloons is the encased

Melancholy persuading broken roads

To remiss off sorrowful deeds based

On the equity of the biases you created.

All eaves created among heavenly bliss

Surpasses each and every song in the

Light of heaven.

Surrounding my mind are mystic bodies

Drowning in volcanic matter.

Liberation comes in the eyes of the Lord’s

Harbor when all fountains ask for honors

Of the disease you brought forth.

Carriage comes rocking down a funnel;

Yet, all matter surrounding feverish goons

Entices each fathoming buffoon to dry

Out the laundry hanging on the lines of

Fate.

Effort be distorted along jagged lines of

Tomorrow.

Each clogged sink is the back up stemming

From life’s atrocities.

I try as I may to flush out soot built up by

Oceanic tides, but I never seem to reach

The end.

Whenever there is a cross in the sea, I falter

Down broken roads repeatedly, hoping the same

Mistakes aren’t made.

However, I plunge in the ease of my soulful waters

Through slapping my guitar on a stick to make a

Handful of hope to give equivalent pressure.

I try not to fight the sway of the saw and I jag

Away at wooden doors sealed under lock and key.

His bolt is fastened too tight for a knob which

Won’t turn.

The idea is to propel; yet, I saw off the ends of

Humanity’s electrical current.

For every beam of light to burn through

Solid wood, one must drive out all power

Illusion thrives on.

For his words fill lungful of deceit

Wandering through mystic halls.

Each side is plastered with blood belonging

To the dead.

I’m painted a deep red all over to hollow out

My breathing bones, and seep into fallow graves.

Only then shall everlasting light cut through the

Fog.

I must filter out passage ways clogging your view

Of what’s real and what isn’t.

You must discern so.  For all else is the knowing

Instead of wandering the unknown with a blank

Stare.

Credence be unto you and your defected arrow.

For every shot you took at the board, you went

Off target.

Once the target was missed, you faltered further

Down the roads of deceit.

Crafty leads you down your winded breaths of fire.

There is no lull in the night when the eagle dies.

Turn to the flame for help to fade into the sun.

Don’t burn up the night with your hallow song,

But lead yourself down golden roads toward

Paths of rite where you belong in the hours

Of the blade.

Dance into the sunlight.  Breathe the winds

Sadness, and fill the heart with life.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016

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