I


In every sunrise lurks the lee of night,
the aftermath of nightmare's chill decree,
emulsifying streams of terror's might
into the gulf of daytime's killing spree.

These ghosts, we bear like children of our fears
that wail away the fabric of our minds
until, in tattered threads, we soak our tears
on tissues of our life, with lies and blinds;

the benefits that sanctify with balm
and mollify the edges of the pain.
In decades' hindsight, sadness shatters calm
as understanding burgeons in the vein;

that thought is overwrought, and justice claimed
by tyrants of interpretation's strength,
and in our minds' perceptions we're defamed
because we measure power's vim, not length,

for only death exists to quell the storm,
if final wry soliloquies conform.


II

If final wry soliloquies conform
to bind us in subservience to stars,
they tease us from the sky in which they swarm
and mock our words with glory from afar.

Our only freedom rests in passion's vent,
expression borne on streams of consciousness
to lap against what consciences prevent
from seeing light or understanding bliss

with anything but darkened, hooded eyes
that bat with ineffective deference
against the cloak designed to mesmerise
with fallow lies the sight of our defence.

So poise those pens, you brave almighty scribes,
you articles of words' sly, patient reign
across the culture drowning in the jibes
of pop tart defamation's cliched stain

evaporating all the sense we shot;
with rhetoric, we follow better plots.


III

with rhetoric, we follow better plots
unto a land of dreams without aplomb,
to effervesce in nature's bubbling pot
and understand the beauty of the bomb.

So finally, we comprehend the truth;
that contrasts hide connections unresolved.
Reality is perfectly uncouth
and nothing in the world has yet evolved

beyond an ooze that yearns to seize the day
with dominant compassion and a dream,
to suffocate with hopeful tourniquets
all traces of the danger in the seams

of senses' limits and perception's role.
We are the enemy we must unseat,
the devil we incarnate in the hole
we dug to hold detritus of defeat

beneath the well from which denial springs,
a symbol of the sustenance fear brings.


IV

A symbol of the sustenance fear brings
is wrought in brands we burn into the hides
of worker drones that weave as profit sings
an aria to rote, fame, lust and brides

who work towards that perfect match's grasp;
the lifelong hold of power's verity.
It's damaged gloss reflecting light we clasp,
the chipped veneer of cloaked barbarity

applied in coats so thick we can deny
an education of misanthropy.
We worship lies designed to justify
the slaves we show in stunning panoply.

Wrapped up in comfort sanctified by hope
that we might trick the angel at the gate,
we head into the future, and we cope
so long as none may hold us in debate

of all the sacrifices made for good
while shadowing our faces in a hood.


V

While shadowing our faces in a hood;
a firewall built against all question's gaze,
we generate connections understood
by only minotaurs lost in the maze

of circuitry and airwaves uncontrolled
except by artificial thinking's wiles.
For every dream that dares to break the mould,
a nightmare draws reality in tiles.

Invention is a fantasy; our yearning
for urgent breath to shake monotony
engaging us in predetermined learning
designed to trap our minds in felony

committed on the hopes of artists' thoughts
and predilections to avoid the heap.
Rebellion's the natural state we ought
to hide if our society's to keep

financial hold; dominion 'cross the earth
we've hated since the day pain gave us birth.


VI

We've hated since the day pain gave us birth,
and only death has perspicacity
enough to elevate us from the dearth
of barren listlessness' capacity

to keep us mediocre and defined
as creatures of the instincts we all trust
to generate the glee that makes us blind,
not realising just beneath the crust

potential lurks, available and full.
We sit upon our castles, hoarding fun
as though to share a hand will only pull
the pins from our grenades, and turn our tuns

into a fresh horizon all can view
with vuln'rable delight and shy approach.
Just one dark soul need sacrifice anew
to start a chain reaction of reproach,

and thereby find a path all creeds can walk.
Of generosity, all creeds can talk.


VII

Of generosity, all creeds can talk,
so language cannot stifle our attempts
to weave a rope so strong that none will balk,
each human twining like a strand of hemp

so all can climb into the guiding glare
with aspiration's elevated fire.
Inducted in a sigh beyond compare,
the world will see potential doesn't tire

when mined with open minds and fervent grip
upon the haft of demonstration's blade.
We'll take society on such a trip
with pillars to the sun our fervour made.

We only need remember, with the dusk,
to batten down the hatches while the dark
invades with calculation and the husk
we shed with understanding, bright and stark,

that sometimes evil dwells behind the light;
in every sunrise lurks the lee of night.