Days gone past Belief was simple And necessary And necessarily We fell in line The object Of abject horror Was our downfall And the means Of our salvation
Today it has changed Belief is scorned Those who believe Need to be burned Their sickness Could contaminate us all The masses indoctrinated And inoculated And yet we are all The children of God
Should a war be fought Against all war Or does it make A little more sense To simply ignore To simply live In tolerance of intolerance A sick belief that will Eventually burn itself From existence
Some would say That is naiveté At its finest But these are the same Folks who don’t believe Don’t understand And wouldn’t care to Thier spiritual journey Stolen long ago
That is the shame of it And there is no blame for it For to point one’s finger In some kind of sick judgement Some perverse exposé Would be to lower yourself Into the muck The river of hate Current so swift You couldn’t help But be swept away
Fill your heart With an intolerant joy And the beauty Inherent in things The change might take One thousand years But it will come As long as you make The change this very day Love over Hate Is the only way
The Dream House, that was the place Where first I pondered dream space Vaulted ceilings induce the dream chakra Into a state of overdrive, a state of ecstasy Until finally it fills the room with the biggest dream you’ve ever had Full high definition, ten eighty p, and eight hours long
Every night the Dream House stole sleep Filled with piratical singers and questionable swingers A gift and a curse to be visited so Frequently falling and failing But sometimes, and only sometimes The dreamer would win the battle, would conquer the dream
But the Dream House didn’t give up without a fight The dreams would return the very next night And somehow, despite the norm for dreamers Those in the Dream House would remember Every single moment With more clarity than even real life, the dreams burned into memory
The Dream House wore out those within Smashing their psyche with lack of true sleep And a deluge of unforgettable scenes Somehow mocking the forgettable aspects of everyday life The mundanity of the ordinary man The battle could be won, but the war raged on
The Dream House was haunted, of that I am sure The ceilings were nothing to do with its energy Its palpable presence, infallible and never demure No, something else was at fault Another presence in play, and escape was not forthcoming The Dream House a psychic jail for those unwary
The newest anthology from Five59 Publishing, 559 Ways To Die, is now available on Amazon in paperback and for your Kindle. Filled with 14 tales of murder, crime and death, 559 Ways To Die includes ‘A Stone Marker, Carved With His Name’ by Adam Bennett, a tale of the last gravedigger on Earth in a time when video grave markers have become ubiquitous, advertising is inescapable, and escape to Mars might be the only hope left for a man trapped in the nostalgia of the past.
Presumption of pain And indolent ignorance Converging to create Psychopathic indifference Joyfully journey Into other lands Do not presume To take from their hands The feed and freedom Desperate desire War always wrong A bloody quagmire Hate and intolerance And misunderstanding ‘Til it doesn’t matter Who is left standing So discard your hate Misplaced in any case Look to your leaders Lying to your face Displaced and discordant Garrulous guerillas Nuclear nihilation From our own flotillas Raining retribution Harmonious hate Ignobly ignored Sealed our own fate
Find Adam’s published short stories onAmazonvia Five59 Publishing.