From thence he returned with no abode but lay,
Could not utter words at what horror that may,
So much he would foul in disgust that serves,
Sees himself in a mirror where shrieks his nerves,
Henceward casts himself in the dark and forgets,
More he spits at himself and his skin begets,
A figure stood but could not look back in thought,
How, now? could he ever seek himself in thought,
What gesture too divine can seek him clear of woe,
However beautiful is life without presence of woe,
For caused but ere bestowed was he unto others,
Another human is that which he clearly bothers,
Is sought this trail that leads the hunt towards,
His angst so large and far can escape him homewards,
At last he arrives and sees himself through reality,
One amongst the people in a world of bestiality,
Where all morals and ethics are robbed of reason,
When all motion and notion are descent of treason,
Whose sake for none was but hither tone defined,
So far his word unkempt can sorely be deaf refined,
Whatever his world was and more the sought benign,
Cast thine hands away from here and kneel: resign,
Who could not believe he is so human as was resigned,
Who could not believe he was similar to them designed,
That justify their actions and lack of words decreed,
More that we shall say ours through book and reed,
Is sought but his eyes can only burn through a glimpse,
Alas, his father, forefathers and their fathers sense,
So much was taught and so much was passed; but, but,
Could not foresee his end so far and near this lot,
Just an hour that he would expose his mind to all,
Can surely redeem none the figure to live but fall,
And through the roads he travels no stones be kept,
And through the woods he wanders no dark is slept,
Whence long he knew that was so pure is all so faux,
His morals and words were few, his thoughts so low,
Sees they who grovel in the art of dysentery and foe,
Ere cries, ere fights, ere bites, and they bestow,
Ere brought, ere sought, ere wrought, thus to be,
Who can never relate himself to such and never again,
But as he through time does he slowly yearn to loom,
Is but the reality a saint better than god to gloom,
No better way than he is thus err on reason and faith,
To please his god that no mind could see but a wraith,
One who encircles the trust of kind that breeds the few,
Once returns and sees them and They, the latter he hew,
Could not agree that neither time nor space perfect,
What such a race we are so decrepit in such defect,
How coarse and bloodied we are in sake of all things,
That no comedian could ever spell in word what sings,
A lasting smell that wreaks of bowels and soot,
A taste of chemical upon chemical whence drought,
Forbade him the art of recreation in light brought,
Where one eye can see through right neither right,
Where one eye can see through left is but none left,
The pope enters the cathedral and teaches what morals,
And discusses to those horny bags what ought bore all,
They discuss the rights and wrongs of their treatise,
But could not realise the hypocrisy of their premise,
In streets ye who clothed in suits and artful wear,
Who with knowing morals could dare the sight of sex,
Would watch with tireless eye the breed that perfects,
Only to return in private and engage in the same,
However cruel and disgusting was all too lame,
And after it is over will think again and walk away,
And after you have slept you see yourself and walk away.

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Life, Nature, Poetry, Works
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