Marching—Stoic, to the drums of Death!—
the Stomper's swollen, bleeding feet
shred and bruise as Carcasses Spoil—
then shovel themselves up
off the Sagging, Filthy Pavement—
The Stench is swiftly Swept away
by Unreasonably freezing Winds—
Collected into thundering, Seething clouds
Anxious to spill sulfuric acid
upon all those Brave enough to still be Alive
with Exposed and Broken Skin.
But we have our Doubts, lots of Doubts—
they say crouch Low, be Invisible & Silent—
as we're Guided with Intricate Devices
into Arenas—the Fights are about to begin!—
and the Fights both Excite and Tame.
And the Rain is so Numbingly Cold,
even substantially mixed with Tears—
but still not as intolerable
as being eaten alive by maggots,
Alone,
in some dark, muddy Corner—again—
And many, are still in the Prisons—
trapped, afraid, and burning alive—
the fires of Hell still raging beneath—
no—Earth will never be depleted of Misery—
it has Proven itself to be quite Complete.
And they say Heaven is beyond the Crystal Lake,
beyond the moonlight's gentle Reach,
beyond even, the dimmest Star, oh—
but I have my doubts, lots of doubts...
in anyone's Ability to Surrender Peacefully—
With Hearts all mangled and tangled—
constricted to irregular and tiring
intervals of beating and non-beating—
and the Gods of Poetry have already called
the winner's name to habitually accept
the ham-fisted Knot of Love—
and Look! a signature is already there!—
under the unbroken wax seal—
and it is ours!...
They say Heaven is Beyond the Crystal Lake,
beyond the Wake of our own Reflection—
beyond the Drop and its Circular Ripple—
beyond every Swimmer's ability to breathe—
but they've never once mentioned
what's Asleep at the Bottom—
waiting for the Chosen—to Fatefully Enter,
the Storied, Crystal lake...
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