The Seed

in what dark recesses of torture remain

exists a dreaded seed for us to obtain

to keep us sane and deliver us from evil

so goes the creed of an everlasting people


unending doubt resonates to be

impermanance rooted in an everlasting dream

scarcity of hope glimmering in dusk

prevention of fortune in a world of luck


forever told from stories past

eerily reminiscent of perpetual task

systems of new destroyed wisdom once known

for all apart of a world unsown


grimmace and malice plagued once more

in dire times that conjured vile scorn

but it was hope that was given once last chance

now grows a tree from the seed of our past

Pursuit of Happiness

Pursuing happiness in all its glory
has become dead, habitual satisfaction.
Scraping for a vein of sense,
the young man sees only himself—

in all his glory,

bloody and gory,
overwhelmed by lack of inspiration, hope,
chasing fallacies and the like,


he feels his mind
deleting itself.

Yet, everyone remains silent, still,
copasetic, unmovable in front of
dull gray light,
their concern is drained
and intelligence
Undeniable masses cling to their screens of hope,
the new acceptable dope that all abuse, reuse,
despite the perpetual void tinted by numbness.
Lauding fictitious figures of whom fallacy engulfs,
our brethren grasp, gasping for new air,
lost for eternity without creativity in labyrinth.

The dream is gone,
placed on a bill.
Sensational sensations felt by all, but not
created by all.
Though wait,
a spark of reason, although ever so blasé,
everything accounts for nothing.
All you see, all you are is a fiction
of your own imaginative reality.

Authority takes control to grant security while
enveloping the dreams of the aspirer,
forever doubting idiosyncrasies
of which I embrace daily,


‘tis the way of society,
doubtful as it stands,
embracing normality and screens of absence.
Absent mindedness is the social norm,

taught for decades.

Feel the cascades wash the world away,
the apocalypse is coming.
The end is nigh, belief is irrelevant.
For when he arrives,
it ends,
but not in fire

nor in flood,

in the mind,
our most feeble frailty.

-Ryan K. Fuller

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