Precision and prowess is
clutched within the bowels
of the serapeum’s stone walls,
proud geometric boxes
of suspicious skill.
I live in Atlantis,
sunk deep beneath the ocean waves;
hope is mere semantics,
for my people cannot be saved.
What matters if we stop these bells,
—the toll and knell of guns and bombs,
the monstrous groan of metal wheels
the murmur of a boy gurgling on hope
before his breath is smothered out,
if we cannot quench the thirst of bureaucracy?
Never let ideas die,
not with a man
Where have the lilacs gone?
Are they with the belladonna
that bloomed when we were young,
before the truth was known,
before the side effects,
before the taking of remedies?
Neither mother, maiden, nor crowne
can morn more the passing of this nation
Remember Lenon and his words,
how he sang so eloquently
‘that your still fucking peasants
as far as I can see,’
We are living in Orwell’s mind,
while Huxley sings his lullaby
Do not believe bankers, princes,
or governments; for all their wealth,
glittering gold, and grasping at control,
Oh, Khafre would you tell the truth?
Was it you who removed Anubis
from the rough paws that soothed the world