Pious

Tainted memories clouding
the purple-blue horizon.
  A bruise on a soul
  all but perfectly white;
    living a vanilla life trimmed
    with crimson dragon scales.
      Lost in the grey havens
      searching for my wasted colours.

The beige veil of civilization
covers eyes blinded by lies
  of an oppressive consciousness.
  When sleep creeps into crusted eyes
    life dies a thousand deaths,
    all imagined but not unseen.

The rusted chains of reality bind
mental clarity and static youth.
  Languid wagging tongues lap
  at questions left for ponderous peoples.
    we wander in ethereal bliss
    only to be dropped into the life-blood


                of a Dream,


                      the American way,


                                the Pious perfection,


                                        with no Light of day.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved