Sundays In Sanctuary: Pushing Prose

In our latest feature of subpar, artistic journalism, OATH brings you our horribly titled, Sundays In Sanctuary.
Detest.

Coffee shops and codeine,
feeling confused by my cloudy
mistrust for the maniacal.
Missing my past and pushing
forward in my torrid presence
feigning from my galavantic psychosis
fueled by filled graves of memories
never made by the sadistic shade gained.
Just because I relax along
this minimalist pattern of
rhythmic scatter. Mixing alliterate
assonance, ignorance in
within the passionate. The eyes
of a cereal xenophobe
crying over nothing for
fear that one simple tear might
muddy defined lines of
passion and fear.
Mixed up in the middle ground
ambitious to settle the vicious
venom vehemently vexed
in the concern of societal seclusive,
crossroads with devilish toads
barking the banter of boastful
becoming but blind to the side
singing separate songs. Right or
wrong, in the writhe of throngs
we dance in romance of regarded
realities of royalty frailties. Railroad ties
full of ridiculous lies, heavy
lies the wavy, wondered brain
of the socially insane.
The mind is the weapon and
your pen is simply a possession.
The state manifested will determine the
mold for your expression. Do not
confusedly concern with slew
of round holes. Pegged down,
decorating the course. Be a fuckin'
square with soul. Stride the
solidity of a work horse. Ranting,
raging, venting and aging. The
nostalgic notion holding hearts
heavy, a zombified zealot
zip locked in a xylophonic
rhythm tapped out by
innocent ignorance lead
by trial and error. Sights
fixed on fortune for soul,
opposite fools gold.

Done