They sold Jesus on the cross with neon letters for flare
I wound up in the gutter when I went searching for answers there.

The poor stay poor or so some say, the rich get rich or some stock markets claim.

I spray paint the Vitruvian Man on a the side of City Hall,
Only to have it removed as vandalism, if we are Rome surely we shall fall.

I lay down in the limelight and perform for the masses,
The show goes on and soon is forgotten, it’s true what they say about absolutes;
Death and Taxes.

I watch the city burn, I may have fanned the fire.
If we are to ash, gather round and celebrate our own makeshift pyre.

The times keep on moving and we’re all trying our best to stay afloat.
The rules keep changing to fit the voices of the few but everyone is something,
With so much difference no wonder we can’t agree.

Sacrifice individuality?

Drive the nails in deeper and cut out their tongues,
The thought crime fits the punishment.
Don’t think- about it.
Don’t- think about it.
Don’t- think about- it.


Sacrifice individuality?

I wrote a personal manifesto in the sands of time, only for the waves to wash it away.
I chiseled a poem in stone only for time and weather to whittle it down,
It was then I learned that nothing lasts forever
I chased time like a hound after a hare,
I killed time for an hour
Then was jailed in a prison for abuse of a metaphor.

I felt the pity of a mother,
The anger of a parent,
I held onto the bars of my cell,
This was the pit and personal pendulum
Torture is best when it’s personalised to make a singular hell.

The halls of Humanity were so brightly lit that I forgot the basement I now explore.
Dim, cold and wet.
The dregs of the past lurk along the catacomb walls,
The rats chatter in the shadows, they sound like mocking laughter.

I travel through the cellars of time, history gone by.
The records are scrolled on papyrus,
The cave paintings show how life once was,
The broken weapons of armies old, litter boxes and tombs of kings and leaders,
All their stories and lives have been told.
Grave robbers snuck in under the cover of darkness, left what couldn't be moved
The rest has been sold.

Sould out, which is why I feel empty, staring at what remains and what may be of our current history.

We’re on a timetable of power, and it’s shifting ever faster.

Never aware of the dangers of yesteryear, so we work and build tomorrow today
Because by the time tomorrow is today, we’ve already outdated it.

I wander these cold Halls of Humanity,
Far below the current.
I rifle through the scar tissue,
I sing to the skulls,
I drink wine with the poet ghosts.
I hear the secrets that they hold.