Pitch

My parse is trait and scart on edging.

Loury, scathing, truculent orts

Brattling profundity

This tongue cut out

Now wags against the shears

The artificial logic of the louder voice

The mirage of emotion

Hypnotic mantras of a lie

Vague eloquence in melodic duplicity

Addictions to the silver spoon

The inequity of beauty

The luck of gold

The right of might

The justice of a coin toss

This moral write-off of “God’s will”

Cloaks a missing history

Pawn’s mortared flesh

Pitiful deaths

Hedge in the luck of kings

As victors veil, so tip the scales

In favor of the current bent

Which pens this hell to consecrated order

When chaos beats against the hull

The salty brine is mine to fend

Caste’s swelling fraud but waterlog

While obscured lives as pitch

Seal out the flood

Sail on for now elitists

Who bail our tears 

And spend our dreams as ballast

Upon this deep your consciences’ sleep

Till waves become a soothing

Mother’s rocking