Across cross-cultured and plagued plains of failing railing religions, I try to abstain from the pain of this game, the hellfire flame heats the desiring need for fame but I realise popularity is inanely lame and life stands to kill, I remain the same as I try to gain momentum. Still.
Catastrophe! My waxen wings melt in the thick of the sun, I fall like Icarus and my bones break but apparently it’s my handy knack and conveniently, just in time, I land on my feet. I can’t run though, or see, collating the spraying bullets from the smoking barrels of a banshee.
And I am stunned, by the awe full silence of the nun on the opposite side of the gun, maybe I should have become one, steepled in century-old tradition as I try to come to terms with my impossible mission, my mortal contradiction, my innate self-conviction as they melt into elements of pure benediction and in that moment, an angel came to save me as Satan tried to disgrace me dislocating my soul from the fading ribbon of God’s submission.
He watches over and foresees your struggling as human consciousness is bubbling into more than a mass of mumbled grumblings, remaining oblivious, rejecting the subservient, sweeping up crumblings of your chocolate biscuit whilst sipping a sup on a hot cup of tea. Slavery is everywhere if you look hard enough, and deludedly, you think you’re free.
I see the crumbling world stumble in subliminal signals, humans succumbing to innovate love for greed, can’t you see, the wanton glee of high society as we, freely fall into a sea of useless notoriety, making sense of cents and pennies when they can’t even dig for a wishing well. Hell. You wish them well anyway, but what does it mean? They haven’t even got a well dug deep enough to wet wet wet up a cup of your daily dose of coffee beans.