Silent disgrace woven amongst tales of treachery and theft.
That which survives might only be a section of some convoluted test.
Vie for power to see if that turns out to be true or false.
Picture perfect is how it seems we failed to check the pulse.
Grafted poachers along the winding mountain trail of curse.
Bled dry what should have been a bountiful purse.
Pariah,
My messiah.
Built from blood and stone.
Devoid of a real home.
Tortured by the heavens,
While left with no one…
But those named solace and melancholy!
Scattered thoughts salvaged and bonded into a single shape.
No thought was given to whether such actions were most unkind.
Until plagues came to wittle away what did remain.
Turning mountains to ash and forests to spouts of flame.
Robbed the territories of what was never on offer.
Paid out the debts with an empty falsified coffer.
Pariah,
My messiah.
Built from blood and stone.
Devoid of a real home.
Tortured by the heavens,
While left with no one…
But those named solace and melancholy!
Veracity has been sold not bought.
Each fresh page is written, blood sport.
It’s why with howls we screech for peace.
For right here is where Orion fashioned our grief.
Pariah,
My messiah.
Built from blood and stone.
Devoid of a real home.
Tortured by the heavens,
While left with no one…
But solace and melancholy.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 