And Chrysomallus discarded the golden fleece, on the shadowy east,
Of the American land,
Harvested,
By charcoal calloused crimson red stained hands,

Our industry
Is heinous beyond belief
It's a surprise that we can sleep in peace

Selective memory is bittersweet

As the sun slowly sets
The precursor to the week
With deadlines,
                            Orders,
                            ­               Oh so bleak
The calm before the storm
  Too restless to enjoy
For everybody knows
     It's sunday's melancholy ploy

    Responsibilities loom overhead
     Our heart as heavy as the air
      The world has now gone silent
              We sit in subtle fear

I dream of you,
No remedies.
In walls of blue,
Are memories.

Of you and me,
Intertwined.
So carefree.
So ******* blind.

To all the pain,
I'd bring down,
*** and champagne,
Take back their crown.

I'm tired of life,
Without a doubt.
Cut by the knife,
I'm bleeding out.

Panicking,
High in the air,
Scrambling,
But nothing's there.

I cannot fall,
Back into drink,
No alcohol,
I have to think.

About the evil,
I have done.
It seems medieval,
But I can't run.

Tools of torture,
On my brain,
From disorder,
Remove the stain.

I am awful,
This is true.
Drown in offal,
To then break through.

I have learned,
A simple thing.
I can be burned.
I am not king.

Freedom
is the ultimate form of
responsibility
because we have
no one else to blame
for our choices
but us

Towers of cards, they fall.
As if bombs could build a wall.
Like miners who die for fuel,
But we don't count ourselves cruel.

Falsehoods can be true
As long as they don't impose upon you.
The tithes we give at church
Don't keep the birds their perch.

The oceans run green with gunk.
All that's left of the tree, its trunk.
In the morning we go to work,
But everything else, we shirk.

Thankful, the world spins on,
Long after we have gone.