Krystal Pen

Fiction, Poetry and everything Literary. Every voice should be heard.

Such Are The Days

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Every mind knows the truth
As lucid as the dullness of crepuscle,
Yet prefers to be cuddled by the lie,
Like the groping of a crippled ocean.
Such are the days.

Every feet quiver, like the heavy dance
Of the forest to the suprano of the wind
With a need to be in church, yet
Attired with ignorance, as to why
There is the need.
Such are the days.

Every knee is humbled
By the need to be planted, yet
Ravished by folly of oblivion, of who
They pray to.
Such are the days.

Every ear hears about that golden roof
As silent as the scream of
The furious sky, yet aproned in
The glitters of levity, to know
What it is.
Such are the days.

Even so, more dreadful,

Every thought is now larded
With infallible pieces of confidence,
Resolute like the ambush of aurora,
That the church is a mere gathering.
Such are the days.

Every mouth now chews with boldness,
Dropping bones of sore blasphemy,
That God does not exist.
Such are the days.

Every thought rolls even more
With a tenacity like the unity
Of the green tropical, that flesh
Will not be melted like plastic.
Such are the days.

Good can now smile like
The tenderness of a lost prestige,
With the very dark and dreadful
Teeth of evil.
Such are the days.

Believes now float with alacrity
Like the firmness of a Banana skin,
That the immoral style is the emblem
Of a revolutionary approach.
Such are the days.

Men now create conscience
With their raped words of folly;
A conscience as lifeless as
The very cold breath of quietus.
Such are the days.

We are now sipped with finesse
Into the days; when men see no more,
When men speak no more,
When men hear no more,
When men think no more,
Because men have lost
All it takes to be granduered
In the very colours of man’s authority,
Even that whole which was redeemed.

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