Snowflakes drape the violets— a splash of how the human spirit can be, personified.
The pale faces and minds dangle on the precipice where the lost begin
and end themselves.
I sense their impending strokes, aneurysms, Myocarditis, failing immune systems, acquiredautoimmunodeficiencysyndromes, sterilization, and aggressive cancers loom on the horizon of the frozen ground of their minds. I sense the digital serpent coiled in their ribosomes and nuclei.
"Which brand did you choose?"
Choose? A momentary inner wince is contained in polished discipline.
"I don't need to take your shots, I've been selected to slither through the polygon window."
Lackluster irises reflect the violets that bounce to hits of heavy, wet snow fall, their petals open to the waning light
in defiance.
"You rolled over like *******, brag over begging for more."
It soars over his head like the dark, pregnant snowclouds roiling above us.
Hopefully, only 7 years remain of watching people **** themselves and their loved ones in denatured cowardice and mindless obedience— enough to appease the hyper-capitalist bloodlust for progress and ignorance. I can survive 12—7 years will be enough horror and tragedy to fill lifetimes.
Don't speak of that for 14 years, and don't speak of this for 7 years. Don't ever mention OPERATION F, and only mention Project D without disclosing Appendix A & B. In 3 years, that is.
Yes, Master.
Hopefully, enough of the cowards and mindlessly obedient **** themselves and each other during the next 7 years
in order for the poor and the meek to inherit the Earth—push through the snow in defiance,
sow the spark and glow of human spirit and nature in the garden once again.