I have no heartbeat,no eyes or brain.
All metabolic activity had ceased long ago.
So how am I writing this?
Simple:I'm a work of fiction,
a lie in lines if you will.
So, such a feat is easy for me.

One more sunset;
what does it matter?
There n' gone,
unborn reborn.
Over and over.
Without a lick of sense,
or the luck of a four leaf clover.

Bodies burnt
brittle black.
On with attack
after attack.
Scores of scores
line the floors,
yet onward marches war.
So, please what is this
suffering for?

The tricks of the self:
to confuse and divide, ensnare and impair,
to turn the head on the tail.
Leaving us all chasing circles,
lashing out at phantoms and grasping for dreams.
Living our life's through fiction.
Against the real, it seems we rail.

My mistake was to believe:
To believe in human kindness or reason,
or that truth is in some way potent.
The idea that humanity could make sense,
of what the past will portent.
To dream that borders would not be
barriers to better ways.

Wrap yourself up in the night,
with wingless silent flight.
Up, up into the
Pin-pricked speckled sky.
With that glowing blank-faced
lunar loon.
Beyond the dark, into dreams.
That morph and shift, pour and flow;
As if the woken world is
something you can un-know.

If you want to make a killing;
invest in war.
Seems to work,
for Blair, Bush et al.
Those that follow
the hunger of their self aggrandised,
destiny's lore.
So, roll out the blood red carpet,
leading to the future's hungry jaw.

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