Clockwork Sublimation

I stood within a conclave
Of judgment wrought in fear they laughed
With mannequin faces hardened into a semblance of virtue
They moved like clockwork automatons with emotionless precision
In staid prosaic values created another me

Duplication = imperfection

Beneath the arcane skylight of asymmetrical aspirations
Of gears with broken teeth they oxidize in stasis
When the starlight cauterizes each lie of hope
Through the observatory deck I watch the sky bleed
A crimson song of pervasive eulogies

In the stigmata of stalemates
I watch the tourniquet bleed red in superficial catastrophe
Sutured with tourmaline laser of carcinogenic calamity
This sepulcher holding relics of discord
As an athame burning casts its spell

A soul scathing lament.
A cacophony of symphonic suicides disallowed
In metallic clamor weeping tears which rust upon my face
My trenchant confessions manifest a festered sore of effluence
Gifted to the empire formed within the clay
Built inside a day

I stuttered robotic to yearn for flesh
To once again release the anguish through a pen
I spit ideas from an inkwell in mechanized calligraphy
And it was applauded
Lauded for its truth to form, in return allowed to conform

In hollow vapor blurring skylines
Writing iconoclastic lines on beryllium sheets of mass production
We wail our subjugation inside our confined existence
I insist to resist and desist this evocation

That is why I am read by few, who actually understand what I do
No bleeding marks given for conforming
To idealistic forming
Of monotonous ideology

In this world of clockwork sublimation