His herd trudge in binary directions.
Faceless they march to their fraudulent feed
Opposing the one, their ransom, his seed.
False food disguised as noble inflections.

The truth shrouded from all inspections
With frivolity from who need pay heed.
To words of the one, through him that did bleed
As payment for the herd’s imperfections.

Not for them but for him, the one, the all,
For their actions would tarnish his clean name
Should his creation lay under a pall,
His perfection it would only defame.
When he takes a stand, upon him they call
It is written he’ll win the wicked game.

For many chasing jenny, a short shrift
For lack of atonement for losing tone,
Their restitution shan’t come from that throne.
Their heart’s reticence sends love far adrift.

Truth can mend Lucifer’s damage, the rift
In their hearts instilled by stealth from day one.
To hear the word, the onus is their own.
To hear the truth is to receive its gift.

With wisdom, utilise our time we must.
Escape the herd in their binary trudge.
Basing beliefs on knowledge we can trust
They know to do but continue the drudge.
Heads hung with disgust they’ll return to dust
To dust, they he will adjudge.

The canvas currently clean as satin,
Upon which, with their freedom, they may paint
That which their hearts desire, but not to taint
Or tarnish the words before that Latin.

A bastardisation was that Latin,
Wringing and wrangling till the truth grew faint.
Questions unasked as questioner’s constraint
Set in motion the persistent pattern.

Little with distance between are those eyes
Open and receptive to deviate.
Blindly open and blinkered by the lies
For their daily drudge down the wide road, fate.
No hope for what awaits beyond the fires
When they see will it all be but too late?

Words will always retain their power.
Words are for the means to meaning,
And for those who will listen;
The enunciation of truth.
Once spoken they’re said.
Words will never die,
For behind our words is an idea.
An idea of a possibility.
To transpire or sometimes not.
This notion shall never cease.
We cannot **** ideas,
And so we cannot **** the words with which to convey them.
Words are the tools by which we can use,
The most powerful weapon known to man;
The blade of truth,
Effortlessly cutting through a world of lies.
A brush of reality,
To effortlessly paint over a world of falsehood,
And so discerning the truth as truth and lies as lies.
A scale of lies and a scale of truth.
From the darkest of black to the brightest of white,
But words will never change their colours.
Words will always retain their power.

Such is the mirror of a tomorrow
That makes now’s theft no more than a borrow.
Myriad borrows without reflection
Gybe the sailor’s course beyond correction.
Sailing on the waves of a reworking.
Reinforcing winter’s wind’s inflection
To fill the world with a dire infection.
Yesterday left to cruel sorrow.
Winter prevails for tomorrow.

The fallen guide the vacuous minded.
They follow to their destiny of dead.
In eternity of eternal sleep
Blind to the reward they shall never reap.
Perpendicularly prevailing for
Fighting back with righteousness they shall keep
Until victorious they take the leap
To the promise that has been read
By those remaining sound minded.

Such was the mirror of that yesterday
That cleans the slate thereafter, ev’ryday.
Their dirges sound hollow when spring is here.
They’ll never return lest we forget fear.
We learn to reflect the heart of the all.
No more need we shed a single sad tear
For this, it is written, he will forswear.
Embrace love for there’s no other way,
As it will prevail forever and a day.

Ardent hist’ry has Ipswich town,
Where burning the last witch went down,
And was home to the Tudor crown.
Now dull embers.

A maritime town when trade stops.
Now clogged up and rife with pound shops.
Abound's the smell of coughed up hops
from its members.

A cultural scene cloaked in fog
of Friday night’s back ally snog,
or in the park where ev’n the dog
Treads carefully.

Shop workers and call centre staff
Aiming short sighted but to laugh,
smiling only for the photograph,
Pose cheerfully.

Suffused with sweet sound
Are the dulcet trees of spring.
From where do they resound?
How so do they sing?

Things aren’t entirely smooth.
This is the best that we can do.
As we are able to move,
Just as they do on TV,
With the help of words on cd.
I don’t stop though I should.
Oh it pains to be that good.
And the pain’s from watching TV.
It placates with songs on CD.
But is still from such falsehood.

Xanadu; quintessence of the words,
Of beauty to our ears.
Not love of mind nor fanciful sight,
Nor tenacity of breath of those who might,
Speak provocation of effusive tears.

Diversification of those whose diction,
Expansion was sought imploringly,
Displayed meek thirst,
For knowledge first;
They’ll be blessedly beset linguistically.

Longing rills of liquefied utterance,
Reverberating waves aplenty,
Bellowing whispers loud,
Heard from within a shroud,
Giving rise to a barrel never empty.

Roaring murmurs of ripples in thousands
Cascading to oceans below,
A fast falling downward demise,
Sounding white truth and that of black lies,
Of onomatopoeic H2O.

Not stringent is the string of letters,
Lax are the words to be strung.
Not sequentially,
But dulcetly,
Outward beauty will be rung.

With a patterned strike using one’s cerebella Mallet
On the gong of one’s cerebral stock,
Eloquence imbues,
The mind your ears use,
Curtailing the perpetual tick tock – tick tock.

Facile masks circle that face,
Consuming as they revolve.
Filched is elation,
Taken is creation.
Yet knowing the inevitable resolve.