Friends

By Frater Mastema

To have,
To hold dear,
Those who have been,
Made common or uncommon to me,
My Friends.

Yet how strange,
The tide that works more,
One side to the other,
Finding myself,
Earnest,
Them are in greed.

Is not condemning,
An action,
Opposition to myself?

Why to persist,
With unhappy state?

Wherein against a friend,
Is harboured,
Loathing,
Disgust;

Yet, with inability,
To speak out,
Against these things,
That inflict this Rage.

Instead,
Better to kill,
Sever their heads,
Let freely flow blood and bone.

Better this,
To speak and give voice,
My criticism and sharp tongue.
Drag these souls,
I love,
Down into hell,
That they do,
Create for me.

With anticipation,
Awaiting the next reunion,
To find,
The face of,
Beast,
The chant of a serpent.

Of my hatred,
Of my thoughts,
Finding myself,
Disgrace,
Ruin upon my mind.

Frolicking with bliss,
Yet steeling myself against,
Dreadful action.
Woe to he,
Who is,
My friend.

A friend,
Need fear more from me,
Than do my enemies.
For enemies are,
In the least,
Showed respect.

My many parts,
Do not make,
A good friend,
Even to myself.
How so can anything,
Felt by this,
My heart,
Be true?

Why love them,
Cherish them?
Why do give all?

Why place,
As a burden,
On my back,
That which at times,
Weighs heavy upon the yoke,
Breaking the spirit,
The spine?

Why place them first?
In all the branches,
The trees in my orchard,
A few are laden with fruit.

This fruit,
Staves off starvation,
Quenches my thirst.

A man,
With no friends,
Will choke on dust.

A man,
With many friends,
Will rant,
With madness,
The lunacy brought forth,
By their presence.

Better mad,
To Starve.

Better to grip lunacy,
than to die of thirst.

Pity the forsaken,
Pity them who have been forsaken not.

Misery,
The company of friends.

Misery,
The absence of friends.