At The Gates Of Surrealism
I’ve often pondered about you Salvador Dali, what
was your state of mind? Audiences gaze at creations
engineered by your dreamscape conscious.
Were you insane? I stand next to vanity, clothed
in his jester suit, sipping red merlot, looking intently
at the postered wall, bitterness settles on his lips from
the fermented juices. Were you bitter Salvador,
bitter like the juices? Your madness creates psychopathic,
twisted hieroglyphs floating in the endless sea of your
imagination. Were you twisted like your subjects
painted in exile, distorted, begging for freedom from
the vortex where you imprisoned them? No, you
were just an artist.
Sean Joiner
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Glory Of Rome
Sword forged perfect for wielding hands
Lion adorning a shield of gold
Ebbing life blood in a circle of stone
A gladiator’s honor forever preserved.
For the glory of Rome
For the glory of Rome
We men will die
For the glory of Rome.
Legions of soldiers marching into eternity’s breast
To Germainia, to Gaul, Caesar will guide
Britannia to Egypt, an empire’s arms embrace
Reminisce of victories forged.
For the glory of Rome
For the glory of Rome
We men died
For the glory of Rome.