Comatose

Praxis is the touchtone of our thought.
Minds inform our movement
making music with our actions -
we are all musicians
dancing to the beat
of a thousand different drums -
combined in tribal counterpoint -
until the chaos is so loud it
can no longer be heard,
only felt - and these words are not spoken,
but they are yelled.
All of your words have fallen to the ground.
You have sold yourself to vanity.
I see your masks, falsehood seeps from you.
But I don't believe a single tale from you.
You scream of destruction and of anarchy.
You writhe in the pain of a love once lost.
But I don't buy a word, not one word.
You sell what's true of yourself (for) vain silver.
Every last drop of your blood runs cold
(you) stale cadaver.
When did your heart last beat
(you) whitewashed corpses?
Your pulse has faded -
your face so pale (you) stale cadaver.
If this is oppression, your heart should be beating.
If you are a warrior, your foe should be bleeding.
If this really hurts you, I should find you weeping.
I've only just met you yet, I find that your comatose conviction means nothing to me.
Choke on your glory.
I won't let you suffocate what now lives.
Art is the depth of our essence,
it cannot be void of truth.
The truth of your expression has withered -
your wick has become cold.
You cannot buy what's real.
You cannot buy the truth.