Moral chasm

Sacrifice is attached, how odd, to the connection of someone or something other to our desire to not part from their side. This desire is then replaced by the emotion generated out of the terror an event brings into our lives. How little must we believe ourselves to be when we would rather support sacrifice than the continuation of ourselves. Were we really great people this wouldn't come into view. Were I an outstanding member of society, exerting moral qual to all actions taken, all words spoken, and all thoughts written or shared then the former, sacrifice, would never be a part of any sentiment reaching any type of moral chasm.

1

Abrasive sounds, scorching wind
lead me not through the voices
for my offer I will not rescind
no matter, what are, your choices.
2
Creatures slowly turning, the night
slow decay permitted to go by
a disease scared on its flight
cures make illnesses die.
3

Furious wind, in cholera engulfed
bring me the dying silver star
so that this enigma is resolved
and I can go on to live with this scar.

4
Precipice halt your long echoes
needed they're not tonight
I need to hear the voice of those
who cannot speak their plight.

...and calming

There is a treatise of beguiling disgust which we attend daily, give praise and oratory remarks, and seldom complain about. One could only aspire to such grandeur in a life's tenure over the apocalyptic take-over that is -to some-this life's reincarnation over this decrepit monolith that carries us about like workers a wheelbarrow... to ensure the grand finale of this daily spectacle it is paramount to know the one whose monologue empowers the desires to return after every engagement. If I were to attempt to achieve anything through mere contemplation the task would become ever-so-incredibly daunting due to our innate ability to survive. It is not about not having fun anymore, it is about understanding the measures in which fun can be had with more ease due to experience rather than the mere platitudes of jumping into the fray and behind one's own buffoon. Without court and yet with a grand stage the jester in our lives with freedoms failed taunts the muse of those whom in complete disregard merely wish to explore the darkness of the unknown that no longer hides a thing from us. This leads to the repetitive nature of humanity, the inability to truly comprehend advancement, and ultimately helps us realize our fear of our dreams becoming a reality; we spend so much effort in trying to convince when listening takes less time and often is more peaceful and calming.

Guile

Gustatory desire, like a trapped thought in the abyss of lust for a hunger that can never be satiated I bring you desperation. In your ambition, for the mutilation of the ever-growing fear that begets a type of salvation too well-known to be desired, you fail to conquer your ambitions. If one is ever to succeed then one must succumb to the irony that is the determination of others, the lack of empathy from others, and the all too real altruistic motive to step over those ahead and below you in order to rise above and to the top.
The mere fact that our family lies in the ruins of our torpid torment as if waiting for the lamentations of the past to become; metamorphosis of the senses in ways never begotten, for it is in the savoring of that moment that the fashion which comes from understanding all which lies within our power loses all, gains nothing, and dies.
It is within us to overcome, to in a moment's flight perceive the will and understand the notions that make us who we are. Yet, the banal attempt to succeed allows us yet once more to continue in our human endeavors for just another day.
I lack not the desire for more, but refuse to accept that it was not desire , will, or determination that drove me here , but gull.

Our Nature

Destined to revert to the basic notions that drive us, are we really evolving? 
Destined to find obstacles surpassed by our ancestors with varying degrees of similarity, yet equal in the measure of effort that must be granted to them, we fail due to our lack of attention to the former in its native form: a whisper, a sentiment, a lament, a yell, and sometimes just a talking-to. We derive not the intended meaning, but the understood meaning based on the desires that drive us, based on the moment's feeling whether they are of ire or felicity. We are doomed to submit our failures to the next generation by mere failure to comprehend that the delivery of that message was devoid of understanding, an understanding that carries with it the essence of the individual's current state of affairs, mood, and a semblance of their attitude toward the current situation. The enabling factor not being the message in itself, rather the desire or necessity to listen which beget a strange behavior or insolence and restitution upon the listener to contrive ways in which to ignore the present and through seldom characteristics drawn from the event react.
I am no longer in a position to clearly object to any notions of agreement or the opposite, nor through the use of marionette's limbs or any other device construct a bridge that can in any manner suffice as the tool which can drive meaning or from which it could be derived.
It is as if our view is a concave whole where everything falls just half right, and the other half is filled with the present we avoid to acknowledge as happening simultaneous to our endeavors.
I feel as if the meaning of life is not in the ever perplexing secrets we wish to unravel in nature, space, and the unknown, but rather in investing oneself in living, letting live, and through the use of knowledge gathering and sharing as much as we can; it is often that it is not those we wish listened that receive an intended message, but the message helps others in kind. The perpetual nature of life is not in that we live and die, but that there are many things we cannot deny that are more than just our nature.

Selective Attentiveness

Fragile, life's subjects we are. Frigid in thought, yet docile in every facet of our domestic endeavors. How we fear the failure of our attacks on the morality of others while falling pray to our wily ways and indecisiveness. We crave an existence of perfection without reflection. We seek moments in which to ravage life not because of our affront on immorality; we live rather comfortably in complacency.

I live through my farce

I die.
Not in the literal sense, but I do actually.
Confounding.
I awoke, in the bathroom decided to smile at the mirror.
The reflection, a happy individual I seldom recognize brought about the most interesting of thoughts: I die. In that I die, there lies not the realization of something never before begotten, for that has always been in the forefront of every action. No, therein lies the culprit of a life lived in the seclusion of reason and in the irony of the darkness that is the human capacity for thought.
I die, in that I die I realized that it is not the fear of death that encapsulates my thinking process rather a desire to submit to a relentless feeling of mourning for those moments in which I failed as a brother, friend, husband, father, son, and stranger among others.
The worse thing I have been on this Earth is a stranger.
I have been-become the incarnate memento mori of my own desires, where being reminded of my platitudes as an individual is merely enough to bring one down back to the forefront of one's life.
I cannot continue with the banality of this penance without first acknowledging the faults I have committed, the transgressions upon my fellow humans for which I hereby apologize with great humility, for I am nothing more than your mirror in this existence; a puppet of life's many errs with a costume of happiness draped over the smile reflected back at me this morning telling me to confess!
I do, I do profess my individual part in this fault and flaw in living I have committed and thus take with discontent and ire-agony to the page this litany, this plight for forgiveness for all those actions which I may or have committed against you and yours for which I had no control over. I abhor the actions that made me who I am, I commend the human that I have become, and I glorify a future in which this person can with all learned thrust upon the world the irony that is living, for I live through my farce.