Testament- Copyright Robert Fullarton 2013

Testament-

-taken from Seasons in the waiting game- Copyright 2013 Robert Fullarton

It doesn’t matter where you were born

The names, the nondescript

World

That yields to earth

And land

Name

And fortune.

Sleep is so rewarding

When surpassing

Global images,

Lies in circulation

And faces you must forget

To sleep

Unto another dawn

Sleep through the present,

Hibernate from status

Blind yourself

From a false light

A world system

The politics

Are mans instincts at play

And they are gruesome

And given to the eternal lost

Don’t play that game

If you do not have to.

Walk through

Green Edens

And sleep

Through

Every path of havoc,

Seen for the lives of havoc,

Stay away from the court

And the senate

Of the so called powerful

Don’t let blood, nor money

Give rancour to a fatal noose

Where responsibility

Fails and ends the path

Of one mans destiny

The masters of the earth

Cannot invade

My private dreams

My strolls through

Empty parks and forests

My thoughts,

My secret fantasies

Don’t wait

Nor tremble on the beckon call

Of those who do not love you

A tiny light of love

Incandescently absorbs some

But evades others

For the dead religion

of egotistical vanity

and they will not love you

as the flame burns back

to hurt you

they may laugh

at the purity of love

but true lovers

are always

children at play

yearning steadfastly through day

for the impossible

dreaming the human drama

to its beautiful core

Sleep through the press

They sell you lies

Embolden on the morning rag

For the lives

Of those who laugh at romance

And those who mock love perpetually

Their cynicism

Is rooted in what they lack

And their image

Glistens with cheap imitations

But never hides

The holes

In the uniforms

And clothes that wear

For the false light

Immemorial

All our hideous models

The rich, the boutique frequenters,

The pundits of cheap depth,

The masters of poor quality,

Sleep in their finery

Returning to beds

To gorge on socialite

Banquets of decadence

The finery exposes

The nakedness

Of a hollow spectre.

Bare of love

Bare of compassion

Bare of vision

The modern definition

The requisition

Social status, the lust for beauty

The lust for popularity

The fatal compromise

Of the nobler pursuit

And notion of true

Undefiled, unconditional

love

True love

Is the birth of a boy again

And that love

Is scolded

Where innocence

Is matched with

Cynicism and mockery