Pointed Spears

What were the chances.
I thought them high;
High enough to
Search through monuments
Without a map to guide,
Building babbling towers
Towards the heavens,
Wading in waterfall fountains
Of penniless coin tosses

Or was that chance
Worth all this.

But doubt,
Friend or foe,
I can’t seem to tell.

But love
We know.

Wavering heart entrances,
Shields in steadfast motion;
Barricades of rhythmic paces;
Steadily we march,
After bypassing defenses
Overtly dressed
In bare nakedness
In lines of verses
With spears pointed
At those with chances.

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Most of Human Kind

The one who dreams weeps
While the dubious churn.

The dreamer hears
In remorse
Poignant nocturnes
Reflecting love
In distant halos
Of moonlit moans
Of the transgressent.

The dubious learns
The trickery
Of snake oil grifters;
Reviewing portentous proceeds,
Hacking away at what was imaginary,
As proxies fly through the heavens
Altering reality.

While the soul recognises
What should be realistically
For most of human kind.