Her smile carries with it dolorous lamentations.
Cold and piercing gazes produce a threnody meant for straight razor artists.
She suckles from the weak;
advances her profane dialect on the ritually abused.
There is beauty in the details of her existence.
The marks we bear engage her intentions circumstantially.
and breathe the same methods.
Our lives are not pro-rated at the apex of memory.
As she places us in cages,
we peruse the intentions of this malefactor called life.
Unraveled mysteries of yesterday and today collide with the misunderstood reasoning of humankind’s free will.
Fatuousness housed within frontal lobes and neurotic ear canals.
“Aliens,” says the norm.
And she knows it.
She plays the God.
omniscient conspirator of choice and the good deed.
She is the stairway.
The pearly gates of paradise held between open,
cold voids with ethereal blue skies,
fluorescent dew-kissed lilacs,
and sun beams devoid of cancerous carcinogens.
And these vessels of blood,
and advance sentience bought it.
So goes the justification of our defiled cages;
encased within our own waste (of body and mind).
For not being able to use forward thinking to progress our species.
But this chisel I’ve harbored in my throat shall be the key to our freedom.
For although the future she has in store for us seems bleak and infinite,
I’ve stolen the blue prints of our existence straight from her gaze.
Don’t think of me as an anarchist,
or bush ranger.
But the architect of reason.
So do drink from the chalice I proffer.
For I will succumb to these wounds I’ve opened once she’s gone.
– 1985 A.D.