Thrice numbered handled pawns,
by Michael Walkerjohn
pierce the souls of all;
truths, numbed by vicious strikes,
cower under death's pall;
realty's grime, manipulation's quad,
shook in eternal thrall;
orrery view, fades life's muse,
a turn, does Helios enthrall.
Potential dons habituation,
corruption's end is sorely won;
striding strong is dreamer's bond
to vision's striking stun;
thought is captivity broken,
all of individuality foregone;
defeats consume darkest moods,
freedom's ends impinge upon.
Satisfaction, is cold which fires control,
oft our only move;
breeds that moment grim,
this stark dance seeks new venues;
corruptions so rampant run to trust,
in universal detinue;
darkness clears we know,
truth, is smeared by one ingénue.
Mirror's gleam surreal,
as passing by, strolls shadow's hide;
reflections but misting's scream,
imprisoned, each steps aside;
truth leads life's fight,
a dipsous relief faith provides;
compassion rules all living,
overcoming dualism worldwide.
Hands ply puppeteer,
as life's three sticks revolve about;
reveal all as flesh, breath and blood,
none can do without;
mind's straight, in self thoughts,
those evil palms so rout;
passion's break fears tight chains,
of it, there is no doubt.