Poison Fantastic

Repetition slices up existence like a barometer of taste

that one may have for such enterprise and of this we understand

the life lived - like cymbals to a symphony, like cracks to a whip,

repetition pulses corronate our atrophied antics

and fuel the patterns of an otherwise perpetual ending.

In the three strikes it takes to enter a stage

we sip up our reflection again and cold courage to offend

the audience etched - for in the corner of the eye it is never real,

our performance never owned but well received

and over time the insult is to just exist without notice to evict.

Shame ensues so often it is but a passenger to bait

the bile sorrow bid to commence its sickly bend within

mind's dead reaches - putrid, yes, we accommodate the word often

for the decaying of the self has been born with its conscience:

our own oft to repent, never redeemed and always resurrected.

And so we laugh the raucous laugh of commodity obeyed

condemned by the perseverance we must hold unmaligned

to fate's force - only to withstand the greatest sin from obliging

our weak minds in the dark hour we laugh, grotesque monsters

with merely our mockery reverberating within.

Repetition is no circular motion we may command to stay

and whirl us flawed misdemeanors to foreign philanderers

who'll cancel us out - it is rather a guest we cannot sway

as it arrives, like the scythe, in aleatory admonition

with impassible perfection to delegate its order upon us, silly atoms.