Pisaries Creator

Breathing is hard to do when you are submerged,
in water or milk or guilt or fear or anxiety,
it doesn't matter because each and every liquid
or feeling will suffocate as much as any rope 
will do when tightened around your neck.

That it is why when the powerful wrap the noose around
the collective thick neck as they do with unwanted chickens 
because turkeys taste better in November, they don't have 
to stray far from the truth of the matters 
gripping the beating hearts of shrunken humans
with their hands experiencing too much reality.

What is before them is not what is behind, 
and the need to authenticate the answers to the 
questions are no longer relevant or riddled with red marks
all over the pages and the highlighted sections with
meaning have been burned from all the books by the great
willpower of the hands holding these black objects
and screaming to their inferiors.

Making sense is hard as breathing has become when sand
is thrown into your eyes and forced down your throat,
and you can feel the sand working its way through
your intestinal tract as if it is a worm eating you from the
inside out because someone didn't care enough 
the brave people of the land and the souls of the captured
remained in chains and felt heat around them.

When the absent ghosts and controlling goblins rejoice,
make no mistake of their intentions, for they see your pain
and don't care one morsel of a bite from a bitter cookie
you are choking on and trying to spit out ingested poison,
knowing it is too late for you but not for them, and yes,
they smile wide because again for them you have lost.

Once again you open your mouth and gobble their sickness
disguised as sweetness right out of their palms, like an old
dog unable to learn new tricks or use the malfunctioning
parts of your brain they have purposely turned off,
as you take one of your last breaths you must know 
the seriousness of the situation, the way you clutch at 
the empty dark before you.

Close your eyes as that is the way of the land now.