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.
Rough draft, 11 14 2021
https://www.scirp.org/journal/paperinformation.aspx?paperid=81838
