Misdirections

You measure perfection,
with your elastic strings,
and take precise readings,
of imprecise things.
The direction you’re seeking,
is taking its course,
by the compass you carry,
beside your magnetite ores.
The stability you pursue,
is balancing the cord,
like the static of motion,
like a triple-edged sword.
The health that you crave for,
cannot be found,
but in wordless poetics,
and in the silence of sound.
The happiness you wait for,
will surely be gone,
tired of waiting,
of waiting too long.
The pleasures you desire,
they can only be found,
on the invisible peak,
the metaphorical ground.
The life that you want,
surely matches with you,
like a new fancy glove,
fits an old rotten shoe.
And you don't measure your wealth,
by the things that you’ve got,
but you measure despair,
by what you have not.
And the love that you cherish,
for the things that you hate,
fills your mind with confusion,
fills your reasons with fate.
You try to live in the moment,
but your clock's made of wood,
so the time you encounter,
it does you no good.
Your quest for a peace,
gets fueled by illusions,
glass mirror doors,
illustrious confusions.
The contact you avoid,
And the ones you don’t see,
do not hold a grudge,
but will just let you be.
You follow your codes,
the best that you can,
your conduct manufactured,
like a gingerbread man.
To preachers and clerics,
you wish to recite,
with all good intentions,
a book filled with spite.
You listen to prophets,
with your distracted ear,
then follow them blindly,
like they were crystal clear.
You seek the forgiveness,
of demons and whores,
begging on your knees,
they take all that is yours.
You think about warmth,
with a mind made of ice,
you try to catch snowflakes,
with a branding device.
With conspicuous clothing,
you're intending to fade,
with bright shining armor,
you retreat to the shade.
And with iron filled booths,
you try not to be heard,
covered in bells,
like a tropical bird.
With words without wisdom,
you want to delight,
stoics and monks,
unaware of your plight.
The decisions you flee from,
will hunt you or not,
but they will keep on coming,
and do what they ought.
You long for salvation,
with a knife in your hand,
when it creeps up on you,
there’s no time to defend.
The regrets that you cling to,
cannot be untied,
from the sorrowful feeling,
on which they relied.
You see your reflection,
in the windows you close,
with the screams that you witness,
of the things you expose.
The assumptions you suffer,
make you swallow the lies,
of your preconceived kingdom,
where falsehoods suffice.
And you paint in your blood,
what you don’t want to show,
your small hidden lanterns,
their diminishing glow.
Trying to see in the future,
squinting your eyes,
through dusty old glasses,
distortions arise.
You look to the past,
by tracking your steps,
as if that would help,
to prevent the collapse.
You search in the corners,
with a fogged telescope,
and find only heaps,
small heaps of hope.
And the answers you give,
to the questions you ask,
are mere repetitions,
you fail to unmask.
And the essence of being,
you try to dissect,
shows subjective reasons,
belief turned to fact.
All the good that you give,
may please those you know,
but when all's said and done,
they're not the foe.