Waking up far too early,
Working hard to save up for the holiday which you must take yearly,
We work and sweat,
And live and die,
To get the check to pay the rent
But even then only barely.

So when we pile up junk in our one room flats,
Only then do we stop to think that we are merely,

Destined to be amongst the the hordes of folk
Who don the yoke of corporate ghosts,
Who push our noses to the floor,
So they can remove the daggers from behind the cloaks that they just veiled over their suits.

For we are the chosen generation!
Schooled and moulded to be sacrificial lambs for the felicitation of our elected leaders.

For their altar of capitalism isn't just a tower it's a cataclysm,
But instead of nature, where when love goes in the blood stops coming out,
Here it's only when blood goes in that money can come out.

Now you may wonder what I'm talking about, so consider this:
When they've finished killing the middle of the east and further,
Only then do they bring their thirst back to the middle of the west and closer,
Only here they **** not our bodies and their swords slit not our veins but our souls,
Easily of course because we've dug out the substance and left only holes,
Which they fill gleefully with their sweet poison:
"Stay young, get rich, don't worry about the little people over there,
You can always avoid them,
So when we send our planes over there and tell you we want peace,
We know you'll keep believing us,
We'll keep our secrets close so you'll never know that you're being deceived by us.”


But I'll tell you that secret that gives us hope and them fear.
All it takes for anyone of us here,
To snap out of our trances,
Face up to reality,
Stand up to them,
And take our chances,
is to ask the question:

Why are we here?
Is there someone watching us somewhere above us out there?
When we die is there a court of cosmic justice,
Which will justify our prayers and stem our tears?

It's because of this I end with a tone of hope combined with sadness,
That mankind shall be cured of its’ long-term madness
That in the end I know when you place your heart between the Hands of Mercy,
In your faith you'll find security and peace so there's no room left for fear.

As I stare into thoughts unknown,
Perchance for Millennia have these thoughts been hidden.

How many lives have been sacrificed for these lines that have been penned,
Wrought forth from the hands of women and men?

I ask myself as I stare deeper,
Will I open my soul & truly experience what is written inside?

Questions, answers, propositions, mathematical formulae,
Stamped on pages in prose, poetry and the notation of symphony,
When bound together between two covers, they are given life,
As they stand tall & proud upon spines of twine and glue.

So what are these books, where are they from, what do they do?

They are treasure troves of information,
Some may well be useless yet some do indeed cause perturbation,
due to their profundity, symmetry or, dare I say it?

Their deep ringing harmony, nay symphony with the truth of creation.

For deep within the belly of our souls writhes a beast with a limitless craving,
& her name is desire.

Silence her cries and take only that which you require,
Place the crown of creation into a state of physical and spiritual prostration,
Search out the knowledge so that you may acquire,
The epiphany of wisdom and the freedom from desire,
For in the end,
Despite what we might covet and admire,
Knowledge is rootless without sincerity,
And sincerity is fruitless without guidance.