Cold, Dead Sleep

Coffee day, cold coffee, cold sleep, yet again I'm growing sleepy.

Eyelids leaden with chewy sleep.
as the corporately dressed feed me their smiling lies.

Their feet adorned in steeped precision,
Only serve to sever my true ambition down to a cursed rendition of many a so called stalwart condition.

Existence isn't a mystery to one,
Who contends in history.
Each word that was written once,
by the powerful faith that moves mountains,
Builds, brick by brick,
the wall that surrounds the destitute prostitute of our plentiful times.

This isn't no poem that will entertain your lustful tongue,
If I should rhyme is very much my own decision.
I detect your wry smile at my wistful folly,
A sneer is all I have for your unhearing ally.

Faith can move mountains or drench a mountains work of pride.
Its powerful innocence pulls a wanderers quest to its demonic end.
What a sad pity it is then, to settle for corporate heroism,
With its coffee & quiet delinquents lurking in the corners...

With all my growing likeness to an evangelic angel,
I begin to drown in the lurking drowsiness,
Of what the death of a society brings to heroic celebration.