Open the city gate,
Keep count of each martyr’s tomb.
Keep your head level between the clouds and gutter,
And try not to choke on censorship’s fumes.

Here lies the distinction between bleak reality and twisted fantasy.
Did that thing expire millennia ago?
Or was it us who dug its grave?
In an age of earned disillusionment, surely no one will live to know.

Hand over your eyes and tongue,
As you wander deeper into deceit and ****.
And don’t bother to ponder the point of a market,
Where we pay with our colours, lovers, and shapes.

But for those of us who live later,
Too late to pay lip service to crumbling creations,
Catch a glimpse of something primal.
Take comfort in a void,
And when you shatter the panes in your temples,
Please, forget how to feel like a droid.

Why not give yourself over to compost?
Free to grow with roses and thorns.
However tight you cling to your hubris,
Gasoline and lilies will conquer all.