An Ode to Odes

All the passion, season for the artistic fashion,
Poetry from the soul, brewed to sear like red-hot coal,
Contrived rhyme, recipe to shine, fine line between original and predefined.

Marks on the wall, writing on the pall,
Eyes closed, feel the stale air grow heated,
Mouth closed, taste the rancid odour lilt across your nose,
Driven to succeed, we dance like how we're shown,
We move like how we're taught,
We teach like how we learned,
Deviate only to reciprocate the same old thing.

It's all been done, honey, it's all been said,
Autumn-eyed angel with hair like the trees,
Brown, red, gold and black in the dark,
It's what was said, darling, it's what was done,
Don't call me sweetheart, don't insult me to my face.

Time to time, sitting still is the way to go,
Change the flow by stopping the drain,
Burn down the pillars of your own reality,
Grasp the fleeting glimpses of sanity,
And be happy that you're not alone.

It's in the recipe, sweet thing, it's carved in stone,
With all your irredescent qualities and diamond cut mind,
Your destiny is to outshine the rest of humankind,
It's who you find alongside, baby, it's not your fault.

Too green to see how to be comfortable in red robes,
Dressed to serve, prim and proper and inbred,
Distorted through the wine glass filled to the brim,
Staring glassy-eyed across the room, it may come clear,
But, more than likely, you know you won't find him, again.

She talked a lot, in that soft voice of her's,
She said a lot, in that whimsically humorous way of her's,
"Don't look so sad, it only leads to latent anger,
When you cry, it's not because life is terrible,
It's all those specks of reality buried in your soul."

"Mind if I slip out of this mind of mine,
It's too tight to keep in this little, white skull,"
So said Death to the Angel of Destruction,
Perched on the scarecrow's shoulder, the vulture smiled.

Time to time, the way to go is to let it all flow,
Blood-red rivers snake through the mountainous mindscape,
While electricity shoots across all the purple-red clouds,
And sleep may never come, for the rest of your life,
Don't fret, child, it's just that the difference between disappears,
Conscious and subconscious, awakened and enlightened,
Underneath that tree, leaves will stick in your hair.

Night drop over day-glow, spidery stars,
Put out like cigarettes in the drizzle of Chicago,
Lukewarm coffee-flavoured lips parted to kiss cynicism,
Alleyways pouring out that fashionable apathy,
And, around and around, goes the merry-go-round,
Empty and rusted, the deathless eyes of the steel horses glint.

A miniature homage of everything stood for before,
The bonfire burns on and on, contained by piles of bones,
Fueled by questions that start with tears,
And the separation between love and happiness,
Cleaved in half and laid out to rot in the desert sun,
Picked clean and brought to be kindle.

It's all been writ, princess, it's all been predicted,
A life given for the life of living death,
Your flesh, so supple, drawn taunt, ivory shined orange,
Relax, they say, so the stress may dissipate,
Come now, angel, it's time to ascend to heaven.

Wings flutter and the sound of liquid on soil,
A knife drawn, a mouth agape, an ear pierced,
Blind and deaf, we move about unchanged by it,
Muted by years of being worn thin by ridicule,
"Don't be so sad, so afraid, so childish,
Grow up, it's time to celebrate the world,
Brought to and borne by ingrates,
This planet will soon die,
And you complain, still,
And you complain, still."

Time to time, sitting still is the way to go,
Change the flow by stopping the drain,
Burn down the pillars of your own reality,
Grasp the fleeting glimpses of sanity,
And be happy that you're not alone.