Original: "Citizen Kane"

Give me a little longer. In the meantime, here's another poem I made. It's called "Citizen Kane," though it's not really about the film in question.

Perfection: A subject subject to subjective debate.
"Love on your own terms is the only love worth fighting for,"
Cries the friar as his liars loot; it's only fair when to settle a score.
Love under any other name would be self-abuse evermore;
The question remains, is there such a thing as a three-way door?
Are philosophers and leaders, all members of the trade, corrupt to the core?
Or are the members of our public lost in legends of illustrious pop lore?
Fire, to begin whipping dance of the dead. This is our first gate.


Projection: Life, as it has been, dying slowly in a lake moor.
Classical progressions of a baroque nature assault mine thoughts,
Until said progressions turn to times once ne'er bought.
Throughout the emptiness of marshland, the frog beneath the trees
Knows her righteous path, for she has darkened potency.
Unearthed rhyme scales reveal ancient times gone by,
Pay attention as the walrus is Paul, but only under glass moonlight.
There is perfection to such projection, though it is through the second Door.


Permutation: Analysis leaves the doubting blind, as says the sparrow.
Staccato breathing in legato tricks.
Picking things apart gives people their kicks.
Let's pick apart one misconception about the direction of precontraceptions:
Life, but what we say; strife, but where we lay.
Attacking the untaxed as lax as we can back
Ourselves against lions, lashing out for the ocean floor.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as says the third window.


Protection: As was Kane to films, as is the lady
Jester antics reach out to complement the stars,
And who are we to deny such an honour, by far?
Never again will life seem so frail,
End to it all is but the trick of the tale.
To myself, keeping in time with such acts these shady. This is but the last story.


Okay, I'll admit, I made this a pretty cryptic one. ^^;; It's certainly much vaguer than the first poem. But it definitely means something. Something very close to me.