It’s there in the empty plans Where somehow I know they won't come through Where the vibey, jivey, lip service Amounts to nothing Over and again, like I am in a hall of mirrors Pretending that I see anything other than my own vanity reflected back Wondering how the terror that is wrought could have any other meaning Like a whisper in the night that consumes all thoughts The hum of an inherent illness that we have brought Where the fading dreams retire
to a world that dies a little more each day in the beat of some unknowable rhythm It’s there in the hatred that has framed all This tireless storm that gets older, and older And old. As if the stake of the world rests in the will to rise and rise again keep fighting, keep pushing to recover from the damage with some kind of grace Like the filth is not corrupting. like the scars don't remain forever Mutating into otherness, a familiar thinness settles like a dissatisfying mist Asphyxiating the will to heal. just let me bleed out here, just leave me to die
And the numbers, and the systems, and the confusion seem to climb onward into infinitum
Beyond the reach of anything sustainable
And its there in the itch
the bugs that feed on you day and night eroding confidence with the lackluster effort
a stolen droplet of lifeblood at a time
As everything is so egregiously overpriced To the effect that: its meaningless And it all seems to dissolve into some form of capital Some echo between ‘seen’ and ‘read’ Where I am waiting for something of reverence to take place.
