Bellow in the Breeze

Let’s make a break, let’s not accept our fate

No more mistakes, we’ll just take and calculate, be reprobates with everything to create,

Dead before we can intoxicate.

For Midas is dead,

No gold was left and so they behead,

Martyred by the presumption of dread,

Voices caught by lead,

Pointed at the arrowhead

Thought to be pirates, only climbing the masthead.

The masthead? Only to escape death,

To escape the breath, the breath of desire

I retire

To the land of ire, cloaked by fire, never so hard to explain the disdain it takes to require half the sheep to not respire,

Do you dare, sire?

Or do you, sire, acquiesce under the stress of elementary duress expressed by the lady in a dress made of the pieces of your little game of chess, which you can not repress unless you allow yourself to access that acrimonious annex of abject affectionless anxiousness you proclaim yourself to possess?

I digress,

But then again, you regress

Regress into a shadow of your former best

Fail the test,

Paint the stars and beat your chest,

Find the pest,

Greet the guest,

Close the chest,

Banish the quest.

Only then will I rest.