Comatose

Praxis is the touchtone of our thought.

Minds inform our movement

making music with our actions -

we are all musicians;

dancing to the beat

of a thousand different drums -

combined in tribal counterpoint -

until the chaos is so loud it

can no longer be heard,

only felt - and these words are not spoken,

but they are yelled.

All of your words have fallen to the ground.

You have sold yourself to vanity.

I see your masks, falsehood seeps from you.

But I don't believe a single tale from you.

You scream of destruction and of anarchy.

You writhe in the pain of a love once lost.

But I don't buy a word, not one word.

You sell what's true of yourself (for) vain silver.

Every last drop of your blood runs cold;

(you) stale cadaver.

When did your heart last beat

(you) whitewashed corpses?

Your pulse has faded -

your face so pale (you) stale cadaver.

If this is oppression, your heart should be beating.

If you are a warrior, your foe should be bleeding.

If this really hurts you, I should find you weeping.

I've only just met you yet, I find that your comatose conviction means nothing to me.

Choke on your glory.

I won't let you suffocate what now lives.

Art is the depth of our essence,

it cannot be void of truth.

The truth of your expression has withered -

your wick has become cold.

You cannot buy what's real.

You cannot buy the truth.