One of those crazy poems that in my head made perfect sense, on the page, just weird. |
-Proletariats- by Keaton Foster Proletariats Such feral legions Pompous postulates Thinking Without questioning Anything beyond their noses To high heaven they stink The stench, wafting Between each of them Saturated with the smell They have no idea That it is emanating From them and their kind For them life is always Coming up roses When anything appears down They praise God for the lesson That they are sure is theirs They don’t question his resolve They don’t brand his timing Inconvenient or inappropriate Proletariats Mired by only a handful Of petitionary abolitionist Those of greater resistance Those unconcerned Bastions of human evolution Brave spectra’s of a few Who dare at any price Those unlike the workers Life’s truly burdened laborers Always fighting to understand Always seeking God Asking issues of wisdom Why did he create all of us Only to wholeheartedly damn Each one of us To such a perilous intersection To a point and place Where we alone must decide This side or the other There is no in between No crossing back and forth There is only the righteous And those errantly undecided Those so saved and those not In this unintended place In this epicenter of all creation Damnation does unfold Like a wild wilderness Salvation hides behind the eyes Behind words to be defined By those so inclined By those of momentous belief Mismanaged conformists Both barring the doors And opening the windows Both restricting the mind And releasing the heart People and animals Minute Are such differences Subtle are the nuances Gradient transformations Always running against Secular inferences All of it extrapolation Pseudo masterbation It feels good to know For as far as we can That we are correct That we are doing it right What we are sure God wants Based of ideas bred by men Based on stories confessed Busy bee’s always make honey Lazy bee’s produce nothing Of substantial qualification Yet one cannot exist Without every other Proletariats Pointing at what exactly I’m not sure they know Nor will they really ever People like me are outsiders Conscientious observers Making our own mess We have no intentions With regard to cleaning up The stain of all existence Is only paled in comparison By the strain of our condition We are struggling to earn A good day’s wage As we make our way Between prevailing And embarkation Unlike those feral legions That we fight not to be most of all We want no part of their sin We will have nothing Of their ultimate redemption Fate is ours alone to decide The presence of a god Is pointless and contrived The absence of that same god Concerns us least of all We are the creatures Here in the blistering darkness The true animals of our species Proletariats Stand for all that we are not They do what needs to be done They are kind, gentle souls Thus the antithesis Of all that we are not We do what we wish In order to decide What needs to be done For ourselves If faith is their universe Then freewill Is our event horizon The central microcosm Of a perfectly finite individualism That they of course Want no functional part of… Proletariats Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2014. |