Gloom

Orange- strange how reflects it,
The world, in its shape.
Not just corporeal,
But it's core, moving things.

Split -8 perfect regions,
Joy, gloom, hope, love,
Four kings of the realm,
Envy, ambition, solitude, strength,
Four jesters.

Connected we are, to all.
But varies does it not?
Each region grows with what is felt,
Invisible matrix feeds on everyone.

Incompetence fills the heart,
Dark jewel,
Center of pride, yet so despised.

Weary of, melancholic guitar strings,
Weeping violin and mournful flute,
The language it speaks, too familiar,
Too fluent I am in its toungue.

Weary of being gloom's biggest buisness,
Surrender my pride if you will surrender your grasp,
Backbone's broken, what dignity is left?

Beg for you to withold your touch,
Of unnatural evil. Mine too became yours,
Your carrier became I.

Feed you did I Gloom? Or did you feed me?
Whatever it is, you drain my life, stop.
Unhealthy it is to gorge on one.
I'll stop on you if you stop on me.

Surrender identity, for a simple chance,
The link between I and my master's broken.

Dogs of War

Lend an ear friend,
For thy well I speak.
Ever was there such a thing,
Prickling the very center,
Of focus and self-content.

Tried to banish it,
As thou thought thou might,
With actions of the tongue.

The given remedy was said,
To be spoken words to a kind,
Understanding heart.

But done that thou has,
Not to one but many a ten,
And still the core pricks.

I have learned,
Only action may cure,
This terrible unease.

Pretty words and kind tones,
Just lavish decorum,
Cure lies simply in action.

Face thy malady with a straight back,
Stand tall proud, with courage,
Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.