The opium addict has change it's face,
but not it's disease.
It is me.
It is your mother.
It is you.
"It is not."
It is.
And it is infinite.
For so long as people
are burdened by the illusion,
so they seek to disperse the fog.
What they seek is not distortion,
but clarity.
What they seek is not fantasy,
but reality.
A new reality
that works for them.
Where they don't work for it.
Where they don't participate
as a rusted cog
spinning in perpetual circles
to power a machine
that lights a projection
of what ought to be,
and what ought not to be
for all the the world to watch
on hamster wheels.
But the opium addict knows risk.
That each time could be
the last time.
But this world has only
two types of people.
Participants.
And non-cooperatives.
There is not room for both.
The opium addict is offered
a consolation package
of pharmaceutical bonbons
but given the same soap opera
each time.
So they fade into the black
I know it is no cure,
because they are not sick.
It is not addiction,
that they seek to fulfill.
It is peace.
And the current reality
does not allow for peace.
And I just wonder to myself,
if maybe
they are not wrong.