Patterns are all gone.
Any cyclical frequency of the Creative
beaten back for cardboard facsimile
while we endure the freak frenetic Tesla sky
we used to call a rolling storm.
Crickets seem ok
but prove to me they ain't a loop.
Birds are making mammal noises.
Rain is stupid standing there
or falls down like headlines
on a hot press printing page.
Clouds is just one white haze
opaque chemical peel;
the sun we see is not the one
burning us alive.
the last gentle meadow breeze?
I don't know,
but Mother Nature's on her knees
and all but tapped on out.
The question left is up to you.
To those who deny
what before them lies
for sake of luxury I say:
scream big if you decide.
Decide to save the Truth
Only you can do it now,
a billion maybe is better than
all the blatant blindly on their side.
It's not that we pay the criminal murderer
for snuffing mothers babies and boys upon a beach. That's old hat and Nick knows that.
It's that you know it's wrong,
and help to spread the lies.
Daggers poised for a dollar and a cause
to plunge hard down
into soft fat heart of Love.
Will she bleed?
You are the one
who forevermore must look out from
behind your big velvet gulag eyes
to the 'not you' going on
we once called outside.
First they came for rhythm.
And you did nothing but play a song.
Then patterns were put on trains
and you pointed out diagonal zigzags
as they herded more away.
Now they come for allegiance to the Lie...
truth disguised in purpose and material
at the shriveled gourd of Providence.
It's the End of the Word.
And there's not a period around
to sentence it at all, and thus,