The Centre is
infected ,
It goes around
itself, whilst outside all seek what they reject,
Once the Janus Man
would cry tears, and smile at the same time,
Then he chose to
sleep, and so they supped his sickness unto him.
Now he only smiles,
and so we all smile,
The Janus Man cries
not to be heard, for his smile already speaks volumes,
And whilst the
centre pretends all is fine, outside it is not,
For poems speak and
are discarded,
Because sometimes
they refuse an audience,
And so as they drown
unheard,
You reach out, and
your hand is pushed away,
Your colours run so
bright they are despised by their glowing truth,
Your words are
inaudible, and even if they were clarified,
No one could
pronounce them,
The Centre is
infected, yet we believe outside all is pure,
The purity, of
friendship, love, family and the cross upon the hill,
Yet when these seem
to fade, we turn to expressions of literature,
Hoping one day the
centre will die of it's own septic irrelevance,
And hopefully we
will be heard and above all understood
The End
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