Know the machine you serve.
Dissmantle the broken system.
The cost is personal comfort for liberty.
"Rage against the dying of the light."
Remain silent; nothing will be heard but the loud shadowy growl of broken dreams, gurgling from within blood filled lungs.
Refuse to change and fight; the world will leave us with death as punishment and reward, masters of fate we must become.
"Rage against the dying of the light."
I watched, as if I had no part at all to play.
I fought, as everything slipped handily away.
I begrudged, as though my right to stand above looking down.
Whilst it all
Lay in ruins beneath what I swore blindly to keep.
As the dream slithered from slackened,
death soaked grasp.
Mouth wide open,
angels spread.
Wings of thorned,
feathers,
soft filled light
All around
within aching head.
Alone with fading,
dying dreams
Sprayed upon my bed.
Give way to birth
dream's lasting pose.
In awful
symmetric,
broken prose.
They cannot take
what's ours to hold.
So poor
grown desperate
we sold forgotten souls
upon the static painted
cross they bare.
Hanging brittle bones
dissmantled lives
where brains
are scrambled on
ancient bloody stones.
The images
we see fed
feel intuitively.
Through modelled,
shaped
and sculpted lies.
All for sale
our children's
torchered future
will bare,
to buy
the broken down machine
before its caught
stealing peniless dreams
to the sound of
broken hearted
screams from lost
naïve schemes.
Turning profits
on a larger scale
the blood not dried
trickles slow
from the cross born
nail.
"Do not go gentle into that good night..."
Dissmantle the broken system.
The cost is personal comfort for liberty.
"Rage against the dying of the light."
Remain silent; nothing will be heard but the loud shadowy growl of broken dreams, gurgling from within blood filled lungs.
Refuse to change and fight; the world will leave us with death as punishment and reward, masters of fate we must become.
"Rage against the dying of the light."
I watched, as if I had no part at all to play.
I fought, as everything slipped handily away.
I begrudged, as though my right to stand above looking down.
Whilst it all
Lay in ruins beneath what I swore blindly to keep.
As the dream slithered from slackened,
death soaked grasp.
Mouth wide open,
angels spread.
Wings of thorned,
feathers,
soft filled light
All around
within aching head.
Alone with fading,
dying dreams
Sprayed upon my bed.
Give way to birth
dream's lasting pose.
In awful
symmetric,
broken prose.
They cannot take
what's ours to hold.
So poor
grown desperate
we sold forgotten souls
upon the static painted
cross they bare.
Hanging brittle bones
dissmantled lives
where brains
are scrambled on
ancient bloody stones.
The images
we see fed
feel intuitively.
Through modelled,
shaped
and sculpted lies.
All for sale
our children's
torchered future
will bare,
to buy
the broken down machine
before its caught
stealing peniless dreams
to the sound of
broken hearted
screams from lost
naïve schemes.
Turning profits
on a larger scale
the blood not dried
trickles slow
from the cross born
nail.
"Do not go gentle into that good night..."