Holograms Mean Memories Poem by Joseph Lambert

Is there nothing I Concede? While you're filling in you're secrets, holding back the beast. Eyes off you now, their voices stating their need. Shaking hands of the temptress, all the ways she makes us bleed. With new life, new lease, to her quiet burning insides, her melting hands, and the only path she goes. Self touching, torching atop her pyre she glows. Her true voice in agony grow louder beyond control. Reckoning at dawn, still a family favorite, a book we never close. Blindfolded self will to see the sun at night, some give it away to the bar stool, Cabaret, a caravan impulsive stage the unspeakable and toss out decisions for you to make, decisions they deem right. The day is done, still exploring the darkest highways, cruelty in every gesture, 'to be revered as holy, there's times I dine with fools.' straight to agony of the lonely, Partisan politics of mastery on command, through the door she came, essence of good sense, mind of the depraved. In cynical disposition, way to far to reform, leaves me entangled, writhing, like greys in a storm, silence of dead air, snatched up from the floor. Eyes with no point of sight, teasing that crushed humor in me, my valor vanished with a ghost tonight. In her mockery of human understanding, imagination, and lore. Delivering through shivering, 'quote the raven, nevermore.'