Burst And Seal
Perfidy — Sightseer’s Poems
A Setting Seal — Authority Done By False Age And Evil Seals — The Man Calls Upon Me.
Four Men — Wise men, some dare and court to say — Their language was true and polished, the peasants’ dared upon them;
But were they just Men? What makes them so firm in their stance?
Hereupon you see, the aging of wrinkles And unknown grievances by the umbrage of time —
The contractions are certainly in play; But is that due to their own foolishness?
Petty River Men They Say!
Is a mere wrinkle the sapping of a spirit much Deserving to be suppressed?
Was the deviance of their sack and pride Done by the stateless nature of warring —
Innate in itself, to be true? If true, what makes them just?
If all in this nature be certain and so — The apathy of being stateless comes to our throes.
False men!; Gibbet them before the morn!
But the will remains stagnant — To the seizing done, by the duress of losing time;
To betray is to dismay the intimate accord Of Friendship over all things —
To be alone is not to be at all; Nothing exists in a sole pocket so forlorn from hope and
Touch. To self-slaughter — to Perfidy:
Is to hark upon full dismaying tides Most grumping.
To sway — To rebound by the district of approaching time;
The reproaches clock me stupid — As I dare repent, to chime.
Wherein the man declares his thugs legal — Where can the other man then sit?
In all the perfidy done by salt licks, And red skirts, entwined by awful writs to rhyme —
Whereupon all man must do is declare himself without Justness and firmament in action —
The laying man remains butchered in his silence — His apathy to touch steel, if the need be arising;
See the silly clot now, tumbling over his own weeds, Yet somehow seems still to fumble this village around —
Touch. To self-slaughter — to Perfidy:
Is to hark upon full dismaying tides Most grumping.
To sway To rebound by the district of approaching time.
Contractions — and contract that again; Contact, sweet odor —
These Men, you see before you — Where the salted steel is thin;
The beaten pork was twice as starved — The woman’s lot touched thrice touched;
Deserves naught of this bitter seal Poached and Boil is the mountain
Under this, he jests and takes The gritting tally from the concealed reel;
Fishes Man, that thin piece of twine will do — But twice now will these Men steal that right to feed.
Touch. To self-slaughter — to Perfidy:
Is to hark upon full dismaying tides Most grumping.
To sway To rebound by the district of approaching time.
Contractions — and contract that again; Contact, sweet odor —
Men; Confronting Men, that hide behind Age And false seals — done by wrinkles and colorful twine —
Where Does He Upset You — Under Here?; Or Over Where? Through Hill or by the Tally of his Deserting Years?
A Promise He Cannot Keep If Perfidy Is The Press Of His Duress In The Aged Skin — That Proclaims Him Safe From Steel
Whereunder the mountain will the normalized man Now find himself? — but only displaced and stolen;
That is their art to conceal, Their pork to congeal —
Their layman to rot And hide beyond all reconciling arts;
Thereupon, is our Men — That usurp and steal
Without the reproach of Justness With the aim to uphold —
The tender chords that disarm us In our petty conflicts —
Before the act of enmassed steel Comes and makes us disappointed fools
Without food, or naught left to steal:
Perfidy!; Perfidy!; Perfidy.
— -
Niceness but a mere dream to fool on over now.
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