Poetry-Thing Thursday: Man’s Long Goodnight

There is naught but triumph,
in the hearts of man,
a species unkindled,
nor burdened by plan,
but so too can madness,
be a triumph of sorts.

It starts small,
but leads to a fall,
one that may never end–
one that cannot contend,
with the madness that life wrought,
or those it offends.

That triumph is darkness,
as well as a light,
and no matter whether one,
believes themselves in the right,
actions are never,
quite so cut and dry.

They do however, tell all,
and determine in hindsight,
the true wit and worth,
of man’s decaying soul,
his heart and plight,
but that cannot undo the damage,
nor end,
his long goodnight.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Abyssal Stares

Verging on a precipice,
gazing into a chasm,
an abyss staring back,
vile and black.

There sits a madness,
inside each man,
We are long gone in soul.
We are at war for our world.
Yet the only blood shed,
is that, which from tears,
we cannot help but weep.

Millennia have come,
and may again go,
but what are we,
if devoid of our soul?

We live yet not die,
breathe but not sigh,
hover but shan’t fly.

Whilst all around us,
there is hope of conceit,
we are undead,
our species defeat,
sealed in the abyss,
swirling ‘neath our feet.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Rise Up and Resist

Dollars and cents,
numbers and sense,
pick up the creature,
that crawls from the tents.
Madness abounds,
chaotic, disordered,
hold onto the rails,
the madman’s unbordered.
Fight for your rights,
or watch ‘em erode
from hatred and ignorance,
the seizuring toad.

We once knew normality
but like a cold poverty,
it turned to disease,
with terrible property.

Yet all the same,
still do we live,
and in night we sing,
“Rise up and Resist!
Remember Humanity!”

Praise others compassion,
but raise up your fist,
to defend against fashion–
whether old or new,
they’re odes to few
and we must resist,
or mellow like dew.

Bonus Poem: Madness That’s Broke

Of madness I’ve spoke,
but I fear it’s been broke,
from the loss of the bloke,
whom the butt of the joke,
did ensure to revoke,
the derision, incision, entitlement folk.

There’s a rhythm you see.
I’ll say it with glee.
For the rhythm is one,
and I just like me,
well to do we,
me and the sea,
pitch and roll,
smell quite like thee,
after a week of no bathing,
and fights blood-thirsty.

Oh madness!
The folly we feel,
when the masters that deal,
and tend to the wheel,
wish only to steal,
our mindless madness,
and succulent veal.

Turn to the boob.
Boy what great rube,
put this in without lube?
A great ‘roid-shaped cube,
on the hole of the human,
television-called tube.

I’ve no madness to captcha’
but only a raptcha’
to which i’ve been matched– uh,
can you please it give back na’ ?

Ah, there it returns,
the madness that burns,
a hole as it turns,
while the scent of these ferns,
know not their own yearns,
but like me do churns,
with madness and sadness, and gladness that learns.