I drown in apathy.
This the course of poetry,
Of language and creativity,
Ha! There is no answer to be found,
As we listen for the aural sound.
The dead speak loudly,
Clear and bold,
Every syllable a gift,
Every word a double edged knife.
I stand amongst the gods teachings,
"We do not know" say the holy men,
"We may only interpret".
But it is not we,
The beast has been bound,
Admired in its cage,
But when I try to set it free,
The whip is turned on me.
I am not a lion tamer,
So how can I speak to such a creature.
I know the secret,
That the beast should not be contained,
To be ruled is not in its nature.
But the preachers cannot see,
As they seek non-existent mystery,
And with a scoff,
They push us down,
Not knowing we are gods.