The Story’s Answer. Part 2

There is no day,
There is no hour,
There is no time
which cannot be used
for the sake that
our sweet and public did.
To do right is to act,
To justify is inexcusable.
Truth is the only merit to truth
As it should be,

I have kept silence
in my place that
was no silence at all,
yet it bore no
No sense is wasting
timeless effort.

Bah! Curse this
All this trivial
nonsense of
waste and time.

Time IS Waste
and so is anger.
Yes, there is a time
for anger,
there is a time for
Yet who am I,
but one soul
and one mind
to determine semantics
of such a word.

What mortal is?
What mortal dares?
Is time, is space,
is life itself not
the determinate of a concept so alien
as quote-unquote

So now we must ask
the question, the
discomforting untrue
what is justice?
and is justice relative.

A call to arms this is
to some,
A blind rally of people
shouting “NO!” time
and time again.

Yet why not?
Is truth not relative?
Is time not relative?
Is evil not relative?
If so why or how
can any system be
true to the word
and concept of

If not then tell
What is justice?
What is just?
Is it Just that a
stack of paper
determines the worth
of a human life?
Is it Just that a girl
is judged and damned
if she Do or Don’t?
Bare the child,
You’re a whore.
Give up the child,
you’re a murderer.
You dare call this Just?
Billions to distract
torture and incest
and you dare call
this sport.

I abide to love,
peace and truth and
you dare call me
And there behold,
another bind.

Truth, ha, even the word
is laughable and
the question real,
What is Truth?

Is Truth real or another
semantic error?
Ah, and loyalty,
another semantic
and to dare share
the semantic,
the blind know
nothing semantic.

Trivial, waste in time,
blind and yet blind
To make no effort,
to only bring forth
a craft of humanity
and thought,
indulgent no?

I say not, I
say what is not
a product of self,
what is not a product
of the decision to act?
Yet what decision is not
made by knowledge of
the option.
Who is to give that knowledge
and who is in a place
of such ego that
they can say
it is a thing to give.

Bare fortune,
No, and true
Sad heart break
it cannot be true
but it is,
It is,
It is true again,
Oh curse the vile
nave and naive
you patriots and do-gooders
Curse you and your
improper dispositions.
Your cruel word,
yet be gone
for to be lost in lust,
to be a drift in the sexual draft
and current
is true.
My supposed perversion,
is my natural gain,
The only perversion,
is fear,
Any! Fear!
Your Fear!
It is Fear that perverts.
It is Fear that obscures.
Yet in a way Fear
can lead to security.
Well secure no more,
for security is the chain,
The chain’s,
our chains,
we are the workers
of the world,
we must unite,
we must show
we must show
we must show our
and we must show
our modesty.
Blurred is my rapid
but strong is every
every bank on word
is both play and

but it is also
a viable way to live
and love
and fight,
we must draw upon
our unity to fight.
Strong words,
from not a strong man,
because no man is present,
no woman either,
only people,
yes only people are here,
Any other label is upon
you and your nature
and peaceful self.

Work and slave
drone on and on,
to what end?
To justify your insecurities,
to pain yourself with your own
cyclone of a lost

What label does one need
beyond knowledge?
Both of body and mind,
Be kind thoughts,
Why does balance
become an alien concept?
To hell with the coin flip,
throw away your coin
for it was used to buy
your chains.
I have no shame for
my craft.
For it is my work.

Do you question your blacksmiths?
Do you have fault
with your carpenters?
Yet you attack the work of poets and philosophers?
Because their work is
work of thought.
I am a citizen of
this world,
and of no other place.
I will not have my
acts obscured,
what is our self indulgence?
For are we not robbed?
How do we not fight?

All do yet they
have their fights by
by a general lack of security.

To excuse these acts,
to hide behind the
proud progressive,
then use and obscure
the name.
The art of war is not the war to be flaunted.
but it is the only thing
to be chained.
Yet even good chains
break so often,
yet better than no chain
at all,
but chain no person
but the wicked,
and even when the
wicked are chained
only chain them.
No whips,
no death,
only chains,
For one chain alone
is a lost ironic,
lacking humanity.

Published by James J Jackson

I'm a poet from California.

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