When the feelings gone how can one hurt or hate. When the light is hidden the truth can’t be found, we remain as the mole in his sightless realm, with small hillocks of earth as a cry for help, when The Devic Kingdom of nature is all one craves.
Tag: writing
Masters In High Chairs A Commentary
The conspiracy and control and how this keeps the masters in their high chairs from the monarchy to feudal landlords, the banks governments national and local, it is all there to control and regulate as a world population spreads out of control.
In this heavy mix the greatest form of denial is that of a roof over ones head be it as a singleton or family, there is now a not so hidden state of homelessness, does society care I doubt it, those upon the streets are viewed as almost byproducts in the gutter a strong statement to make I know, but that is where we are in so-called society.
We also happen to be living in a judgmental and formulaic society where the only ways to move along in life are the prescribed ones usually driven by fear and failure through the conduit of politics and devious media and obvious peer pressure, there appears to be few exceptions to the dogmatic nature of passage and the greatest failure of the prescribed systems, more often than not they miss some very gifted humans who are on the Autism Spectrum I will not add to this the condition of Aspergers Syndrome as the identifier Hans Asperger is now known to have collaborated with the nazi regime in the extermination of disabled children.
To The Glory Of Poor
To the glory of but the poor remain so have to refrain from anger but it boils today not as yesterday, this is now restless and wanting a heavy stone becomes heavier oppression becomes suppression of supposed intent of control and timing the royalist distractions.
Events to cover all horrors of harm and unseen destitution, the poor have lost the voice banging against the transparent screen, voiceless in the assemblage components as big signals make deeper impressions, but somehow a quiet crying is alluded as dark confetti fills the street in protest presence without voice.
What Remains
The legacy of a strong presence, it had been a long time since we had visited a cottage called Cold Place, mud and dust, global spider webs over objects abounded the key turned a faltering mechanism.
A soft creaky push opened the door so heavy it had momentum of it’s own we lit ancient scented candles as we weaved through a cobweb menagerie of damp furniture toward two gentlemanly high back chairs that faced one another in gloom, with a black leaded fireplace we both sat cold in bold dampness but all the while a buzzing was a niggling away at our senses, profound as if some inevitable awakening was coming to greet us and it did, the fire combusted to life wind broke through, dry rot window frames all that was damp unfurled itself. Dry cobwebs blew sucked by a moving internal vortex the family wished us back.
On The Road To Damascus
Walking around in Parameters of time the tin drum played a tune, calling all to the altar, to the altar and the shrines with a fizz for the past and present and those passing and those who stay. Standing still in the madness from time to time, till a bell strikes and calls us to order, to walk in line on the road to Damascus.