The land I walk on is itself talking,
Maddened by illusionary mystifying;
This is why, I keep denying
Dreams and reality.
Then, there’s a repeating vision
Of a garden having no age, no season,
Existing for a tree by reason
To name it: In memory.
What a dream tree is that, alas!
One shall build around it a glassen palace;
Its beauty holds sweet malice,
Isn’t it itself the tree of Eden,
Seducing and then misleading Adam;
Boiling the blood like opium,
Heavenly hellish adultery.
Its shade is ever calming,
Even if it’s not existing, it’s charming;
A Tree of daily harming,
As all the sinners,
we take the same empty path
Seven savage centurions,
Swearing in their saint union’s
Scoured, scouted for sacredness,
Spreading but mere senselessness.
Seven souls sorted by Ceasar
Soullessly scorched the soil spare,
Sending to scourge not just its cereal,
But with seven skint scullions seen there.
In the circling flame’s stake,
Seeing no but smoke and flame,
Seeing no scape to suddenly recoil,
Sadly screamed the servants of the soil.
So, been so scared, suffocating,
Scarcely sober and scarcely seeing,
Thinking their souls cease on that soil,
They started a pray as a last toil on that soil.
Saying sour words to their gods,
But none seemed to soothe the odds,
No Ceres, Venus and no sound from Zeus,
Scullions suffer godless, they had to deduce.
Six scullions snared by scare,
But a single turned scare to dare,
Sending his sidekicks into fire graves,
Instinctively building a bridge of slaves.
Then, the savage scullion
Before being seen by any centurion,
Stabbed their posteriors from one to six,
Til the seventh slaughtered him for his sins.
Pour salt beside the doorstep,
Nail crucifixes and read a holy book.
Though, your deamons will ever find you,
Through your own sins; no devil – nor spook