Drown

 Fucking all the plebs in the village, before I drown;

can there be a meaning in Existance, then all is cloth.

Banishing the boulder uphill, having all bets blown; 

to depleate the writings on the wall until nothing owns.

Going South, to loose my moral compass, for the true North;

loosen the meanings of Good and Evil, for what its worth.

Words become so merry and silent, begetting snowflakes sown.

Frozen in the tundra, blizards chance in Hell; Hail for a Vicar-Tory,

who forgat to Mass the tear in the droplet and the salvation in rain. 

Broken, barren wastelands, longing for a knight in shining ambulatory;

only vultures and ravens closing in on the thirsty and starved, stimulating 

the sense of greater purpose, before the Silence is broken by pain; 

the Eyes of the Storm, once upon a time scorned to be ravined into vain 

abysses Evesdropped the Adams apple into snake lit skies gloomed and gory.

Crucified by oaths and broken wovs, never intended to beheld for Truth; (Shrewd)

the dare more frequent and resonating in its austerity and solemn finite 

manners. When you got, what you wanted, the  quest is over, and Screwed. 

Happily ever-after, how can a finished business be happy on the Skewer? 

The neverending journey with the gate of no gate as its finisher infinite; 

a true Spiritual Warrior rejoyces, for never going home nor walling his kite.

Why would you need Kings and Countries, if you got your quest cut out in Spruce (Lever)