Poison paths choke hope from frames of mind
are the holy veils that cloak each wail.
While cold industry priests cry it’s of no concern
that you feel so done-in,
that the human is buried daily beneath this frantic din.
Do you see the wound we inflict upon ourselves,
lost in each profitable hell?
Blood for the golden horn, the duties borne,
the roar of their collapsing tower -
oh, how it devours
oh how it feeds us gospels of greed.
Hear the roar of their collapsing tower
oh how it devours
oh how it feeds us gospels of greed…
Of false paradise fever material dreams.
Wage slaves beg for scraps bought in life-debt decrees.
Their heads bow exalting slow-death deities,
who hiss schizophrenia and murder the seeds
of what could be.
But beneath pale thrones burns a refusal to go
as hive-mind maintainers of Capital’s row.
We all have inside the tools to overthrow
each technocrat savior hollowing the soul.
We won’t be sold on cowering, on miserably accepting
glorified survival when we deserve better
glorify survival but we will have better.
One drop in sight
of pure delight
of moon blue night
gives us strength to break through
the hustle of our reddust days.
comes to me
as the whispering pine halls enthrall
as baby animals dance in pale spring jubilee… so will we!