A throne of chiseled fury holds a stifled little
breath of discontent.
A small but giant wraith possesses ire
and petulance.

And upon this angry altar is a sinner this time
dying to be a saint.
And from way up high he contemplates the meaning
of this place.

With lips bound.
Without a sound.
His testament, better left unsaid.
And silent he remains…

So wars of undiscovered words, fought by thoughts
with no foundation, his demise
So many possibilities squandered, opportunities
gone by and it doesn’t make sense.

One last chance at no way out to fuel the bonfire
of more constraint.
One more day of this oppression wrought with
obsession and he just might.

With lips bound.
Without a sound.
And silent he remains…

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