Burn it down.
Disaster is on the other side of the gate.
Chains are heavy so give me a break.
The answers not much like the question.
That is why I drift among obsession.
Searching for a point in time.
Waiting for the second rhyme.
Where day joins with chilly night.
Retrospect might as well take flight.
Because when I am here there is no difference.
Might as well dwell in existence
Sell it out.
This phase is a new contradiction.
What has been baked is infliction.
Stain upon the empty tables.
Calls that come from inside the stables.
Where once happiness did roar.
All I feel now is plenty poor.
Verify that sold is not imprisoned.
The root cause is still thickened.
Cast down from a point so high above.
In this place there is no love.
Torn and ruptured.
Spiral down the neverending road of forks.
Light that dwells here is the kind that stalks.
Passion upon a spinning wheel.
Height above makes you feel.
Weather like a simple soul.
What remains could be a goal.
Not the type which brings solution.
Feel as though time has bred confusion.
A sordid little moment that is most sublime.
From zero will you never earn a dime.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 