I dig; soft, soaked soil.Rain makes soft, soaked wood.The shovel,"clank!" on the closed chest below.You dig; through storms and stars.We'd just been born.The shovel,"clank!" on the closed casket below.The worm digs; cracks through the clay.Leaving tracks that trail through time.The shovel,his soft skin, he wishes to go home again.I dig, you dig and the worm digs too.We'd just been born.

Hey! Hey, Tom! Wake up man! Did you see what happened to him?His arm is a bruised as a baboons behind.Could it have been the tuna?What the hell was he thinking?And listening to Metallica, my God he was setting heimself up for this.What's with the Godzilla tattoo?

How did the crimson and tucson spattered sky cry tears of iron?a quant, old-fashioned, northern town;the season of the dragon brings arise such miracles.I wish these times would never end...Smog in smout;next year,at this time,no dragon will cry iron tears

A million points of lightascending to the skystanding watch in the darknessuntill a sun will rise.Screaming to an emptinessof how we once defined ourselves,claiming all of creation,blinded by the hands over our eyes.What power inspires in us this madness,that our existence should be definedby a light that no one can see?What inspiries in us this madness,to base our existence  on that which we can't see?That which can't be seen?A million points of lightascending to the sky,archangles in the dark stand watch,untill the one will rise.Is this our definition of progress?I doubt how far we've come.We appear to ourselves as deities,claiming what nature has presented as our own.We **** everything, damning us as a devided race.Our actions betray, offering us blindness and stupidity.Can anyone see our self-destruction?No one seems to remember our existence,so very delicate_without the light we are but shadowswithout the light we are but dust.A million points of lightascending to the sky,the archangels watchuntill we ourselves fly.

Bubbles bobbing, balancing beneath solid, slick surfaces;
bewildered as to if they're to fall up or down.
"Up" makes the most sense one says to the other, do we not float?
"True", the other says, "we rush like white water twards the light."
"Our last glimpse of hope and freedom frozen before our eyes."
Spheres of air pearched precariously between two worlds.
Bubbles bobbing, balancing beneath solid, slick surfaces.

Eons old ink
Echo from the depths of the sea where the distelfink
Lay.  It’s resting place discovered by divers who deserve to sink.
Not because of their ability to dive, but because of their ability to lip-synch.
What do I do, and to whom do I do it to?  Think
I must, for I am on the brink

Of collapse.  Do I go on living; knowing full well that this paper, on the brink
Of destruction, will lay forever on the bottom of the ink
Colored water from which my work was discovered.  Think,
For my life depends on it, the life of my beloved distelfink.
This whole tiddly-wink of a subject puts a kink in my ability to lip-synch.
Wow, what a link I thought, might this have something to do with the ancient sink?

Yes, yes, but of course, the sink
Of my past people; presented nicely in the present.  My people, on the brink
Of destruction, now have but one hope…my ability to lip-synch.
Where is my paper?  Where is my ink?
I must create more, more distelfink!
What can I do, this is such a stink?  How can I think

About the distelfink?  When I must think
Solely about the outcome, the cease of distruction, to our precious ancient sink.
No, no my brain of pink must help me render up some distelfink.
****, my mind is not in sync!  My body is on the brink
Because of how much I have to double-think.  The ink
Will not flow, and with that, in a wink, I’ve lost my ability to lip-synch.

Outthink, outwit, out measure, I must regain my gift of lip-synch.
This cannot happen unless the cross-link in my brain fixes itself and allows me to think.
What will happen if my ability to think and cross-link forces me to ink?
Like an octopus scared for it’s life, scared that we may never save the sink.
Like blue-birds that can’t sing, I am on the brink
Of madness, madness at the thought of never completing my distelfink.

What if I never complete my distelfink.
Will I ever be able to lip-synch?
Will I constantly be on the brink
With the thought of not being able to think?
Will I save my people, my sink?
It all depends on my eons old ink.

Eons old ink creates pink water soaked distelfink
As it flows into the sink and out as lip-synch.
I must think or I will stay forever on the brink.

Order is shattered in a strange guttural tone that resounded
among the walls of the houses, which seemed dead and deserted.
Behind the closed shutters, eyes watched the conquerors, who,
by right of war, were not masters of the city and of the lives
and fortunes of its people.

In their darkened ruins the inhabitants have given way to the
same feeling of panic which is aroused by the natural cataclysmns.
Their wisdom and strength alike are of no avail for those
devastating upheavals of the earth.

Though the same feeling is experienced whenever the established order
of things is upset, when security ceases to exist.  When all that
was previously protected by the laws of man and nature is suddenly
placed at the mercy of brutal unreasoning force.  This feeling of
panic and confusion, this allowance of ourselves to become dazed
in the whirlwind of abusing senses that is in its own right invasion.

An earthquake buries a whole people beneath the ruins of
their houses.  The river, over-flowed by the unforgiving rains which
seemed destined to never end, runs in spite; sweeping away the
bodies of drowned peasants together with the carcasses of
cattle and rafters forn from roofs.  The victorious army; slaughtering
all who resist, making prisoners of the rest, looting by right of
the sword, and thanking their god to the sound of canon.