another one where karma is late to arrive,
so the good one drops, becomes the fallen.

if the entirety of it is bad,
and all the ones in wrongs have been the ones in winning —
fair, the word doesn’t exist in their world.
they rule, righteous, claiming facts and sharing synergy.

carry hearts on sleeve, be called a fool.
hide them up and lock them away — what of their use?

it’s pessimism, perhaps — they shine so bright
you can never notice how the gold they sit upon
was once the armor of those they claimed they owned.
taken away, the gold mixed with the blood of their bodies
shone so bright, they seemed like the real angels —
despite in wrong.

believe the words, shared and added to.
write your own story, but having to explain? to whom?

they began their rule,
and so brought the world’s ruin,
like an ancient prescribed rune.

and imagine what of those who wore those armors,
clad in protection, having stood in the rights,
aimed at survival.

sweethearts claiming they do the thinking with hearts,
the ones using the brains win — what of the play?
unfair. brutalist.

the claims of karma proved to be theory,
like justice served when the case dropped cold.
karma took too late to arrive,
so the good ones dropped —
they’ve become the fallen.

similarities of both, striving for what they assume
they ought to stand up for.
what’s truly the right? and what truly
would classify as the wrong?

and i stand in front of the graves of ghosts
who shifted their realities,
joined forces with the wrongs.

which side do i pick?
can’t i remain myself as i was?

learn to relive, every single tale told, like rekindling —
but if all of it is a lie, who ought to try
uncover the truth in living?

if revenge is best when served in silence,
and payback is stuck, suspended in the infinite stretching —
do i let them take my spot, turn me like them?
dark, skittish, scrawny, ruthless, brutal,
an unmistakable hunger to achieve
while crushing those standing in betweens.

and who shall bring this ruin?
or find what is the reality,
not term illusionment as realism?

do i walk over them, join hands with the evil?

if kindness is serving as a punishment,
and love has claimed forces with the unforgiven;
if accepting and mistaking genuineness
has become a way of calling the wrong ones up close —

will being the unforgiven, chastised,
and falling lower, off the fallen standard —
will their faces downcast?

do you listen to them,
let them take over your story,
and narrate it from their point of views?

trying to please, to resist, and not hurt
when speaking the accord shall disagree —
is that a play of the good,
or not wanting to submit to the opposite?

or do you become one,
amongst, amidst —
and regret changing,
letting the murk seep,
just cause—

the ones falling, the ones fallen —
do they fear, or long as yearners
for who they were in the beginning?

feels like being stuck
in the purgatory of the good and the bad.