pissy buckets of shitty poetry

shit

Count down the seconds,
Time is a tool
of knowledge and weapon
of the worthy warriors above

Listen, they reckon
you are a fool
but hear them, they beckon
the soul of your one beloved

Madness a spiral of all of these things
such as Mind, and Thought, and Word
Translation's mistake, smoke swirls
as your dream does, a terror
that dies on the verge of the absurd

Call on the great ones, perhaps you will get
a reply in tones of grey,
cling onto your questions, perhaps you have met
kindred spirits that chose to pray

And if you get eaten by a curious theory
of Cosmos or Skies or Kos,
remember that eyes never see clearly
You know better than reality does

Abandoned all things, you sit on your throne
and you mirror the ones before
it all has a price, it could be the terror
of forgetting what you have learnt

Oh, dear student, you'll never get old
in the unending nightmare yours
surrounded again by these walls cold,
the Nightmare that gave you a cause

Fight here, oh student,
laugh your last vow
and ask and beg and pray
call on the great ones, perhaps you will get
a reply in tones of grey