 Some Poetry
This One is called..
The Evolutionist
The most noble and discreet creature,
producers of oxygen and overseers of life itself.
Undertaking evolution of both nature and everything around.
Twisting in different forms of matter towards the great blue abyss,
embedding and connecting to the great mother.
Kind these creatures are, underlining the fate of the future.
The bottom of life but delicate and fertile.
Undertaking the most important roles in society.
The evolutionist and provider is patient but powerful
in the everlasting centenarians.
.
.
.
This One is called...
The King Is Dead!
The king has died
And the new ceremony is complete.
Transferring into the worldly unknown is the new trade.
He is now longer part of the concrete
image of society but a larger allied variety.
His soul is brave, flying higher then the eagles axis.
Connecting with the ceremonial feather
Altogether hes a mad minx whose tail is sly.
The wolves act out defeat
The king is dead,
Now bow your head,
Allow your conscience to
Set free.
Alters of genuine stature form is his valley,
The people. Sad that there ruler is gone.
Performing rituals at his worldly calling arrival.
His words of wisdom shall forever be held by the threads of humanity.
Remembered for eternity in the souls of his followers.
Rests in the hearts of the true.
The wolves act out defeating horror
The king is dead,
Bow your head,
Allow your conscience to
set free.
You may talk to him; he the shaman can guide you to a new state, an unknown.
Your dreams will deem your fate and retaliate you to a new insanity.
Calling, calling, calling the sacred one, chants the shaman.
Your trance induces, takes over your material ridden soul.
Ego- death is a certain death. Which impeaches your mind?
The rhythm of the drum consumes your consciences.
Drowning your principles from one-self.
The task of finding truth is a prosperous
Sega of the images mind.
The King is dead!
What do you think?
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