Pendulum

A stranger to family
Though no black sheep,
A white angel
Born to mix up the pure
Voice the occasion
And relax at achievement.

If we died knowing what we really were
We would leave no mystery,
That lies in death
And the memories of the conscious.

Belief of the condemned
May show the path to enlightenment,
Dependant on the creativity
And imagination buried in the unconscious

Do we believe in the scenery
Devised on panic and choice,
Truth is, we are complicit
To the eventuality contrived
By experience
And the stories of our senses.

As family show remorse to the passing
They imagine their own divine termination,
Twisting it to fit a peaceful goodbye
While praying for more time
To design their own salvation.

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