Our lives pass like cherry blossoms, snapped from hurried branch to ripened fruit. We flit from first to fledged to finished, put out to ash one hundred years an instant. A truth we scarcely want to envision, yet death and quantum mechanics will have it.
In human want and vanity we make the cosmos roll into a ball and laugh, as if our hundred was even a flash to its endless procession of cold stars. It’s like to ants a rose would bloom eternal.
Do not ask the cosmos or pyramids of the atoms that went into their form, or the rose of the ants that flit across its back: for the pyramids would not even know of sciences written in scales of man.
The seasons changing keys set fruit to fall from mindful sagging branch to brutal dust below. The ants divert their sacred path to sweets divinely delivered on high, like man attributing meaning to change.
Is it just we who contemplate the ants, the Sagan starstuff, the music vast?
What talent we once had What vengeance we once took what labor we once made
There was once wondrous music here, more than empty words and rhythms a magic now so elusive we long for the old American Pie, before the music truly died.
Remember Lenon and his words, how he sang so eloquently ‘that your still fucking peasants as far as I can see,’ and dream of a time when Dylan begged to not ‘block up the halls,’ or when ‘the words of prophets echoed in song and not just the subway walls.
What talent we once had; what music we have lost to greed. The Tools and Rage Against The Machine now drifting off to sleep with what vengeance we once had and the labor we once had made to keep our freedom to think.
Do not believe bankers, princes, or governments; for all their wealth, glittering gold, and grasping at control, they haven’t ended suffering or slowed the march of scolding sun through Earth’s newest closing curtain call.
There are folks so evil they would stranglehold a child or dangle slogans like carrots, while building a better A-bomb.
We have reached the threshold where backs can bear no more, but beware the man who says he’ll fix it by adding just one more boulder to the masses as we build back better than before.
He passed away today— or was it days ago, I have not the strength to tell. Anymore, the rose’s petal’s say what my words could never: don’t send me more flowers— please don’t affix a card to the lilies, because I have relived his death with each wilting lily and cried more often then a rose in molt.
Oh, Khafre would you tell the truth? Was it you who removed Anubis from the rough paws that soothed the world when all lost souls would need the weighing scale. Oh, Khafre how does your heart weigh today; would you still chisel at the Jackal’s face and try yourself in the Hall of Two Truths? Oh, Khafre centuries erode the hips, faceless Anubis cannot welcome the dead, nor can the modern historian’s pen. Today, the lies threaten more than the head, as corrupt historians make case to government and threaten our ability to see and be made wise to the sleeping of truth that’s been since Anubis’s nose was lost to man’s ageless need to make himself God or something like it within his lil’ field.
Divisions unite us: The righteous verses all who dare to dream on false idol or care to see such figures flung with giggles into the sea.
And this is it, we build fences from boards that look each like the last, never deviating and ignoring the cracks,
And there is not one group who has not developed in this way. Divisions unite us, and the heathen’s give cause for change. Build a better bomb to beckon our cause! Computers and silicon chips are just an afterthought of guidance systems bettering their odd.
We have engaged in a silence so profound, it approaches stupidity; proceeded in this manor until spent, continued in our heads off-key, as if in the ignoring and humming there would be some relent, as if the pain in our wee heads would go away simply by dreaming it.