Consumed by the inevitable End
I have chosen to die on the horizon
So no one can grieve for its illusion.

Time will always raise The Sun
Even when there are no eyes to see it,
No instruments to measure it.

It's we who create The End, mould it,
To fit in the frame of our own perspective -
A complete work of art.

So, why does the end never fully satisfy?
Because we know, without knowing, it is a lie
The End is such because someone draws a line
And to that end, we are all doing time,
Condemned by a fact:
That we will die.

Our sense of Time imprisons us
With the understanding that
Our sense of it will end.

And that leaves us here, with a choice:
I choose to die on the horizon,
Free, creating my own beautiful End,

Consumed.

I’m breaking down along with our economy
and all around they only want more from me.
The end of my rope but I’ve been tethering,
searching out hope but it’s straining and weathering.
Who cares? There’s nothing good to find,
the never ending stairs within my mind,
I’ve kept going, without knowing,
and there’s no result showing.

If you ask me what I’ve wanted the most,
it’s to destroy this parasite; I’m not much of a host.
I’m just waiting, debating
and operating almost like a robot.
I walk alone, I have no home.

I think I’ll crash if I continue going at this rate,
or maybe just break down; it’s still up for debate.
It seems like everyone in the world is ******* me
except for the select few who I wouldn’t mind *******.
Wouldn’t it be exciting for our system to start igniting?
But you know we’d foot the bill
‘cause we’re paying them still.
They crave our money and vote but don’t care to hear us speak,
so my sincerest thanks for letting me work to barely eat.

If you ask me what I’ve wanted the most,
it’s to have an outside life; this routine’s made me a ghost.
It’s been draining, to be maintaining
this training to become a robot.

If you were to ask what our Country needed the most,
it’s lower taxes and more production from East to West coast.
We’re all slaving, and behaving
for laboursaving just like a robot.
I’m not alone, I notice each clone.

The glass on the stone, the peace in her eyes.
The emotion of her soul, and the serenity in her mind.
The way she speaks, of utter conscience.
The way she perceives, of deep imagination.
Holds her words in, and grasps morality.
Holds her tongue, and justifies her thoughts.
An angel, a goddess, of silky wavy locks and intelligence.
She speaks of wisdom, philosophy, greatness.
...
She speaks revolution.

Hail the laborers at the mill, hail the jokers with witless tastes
I ain't going to work on any ordinary farm, of the ordinance and well-ordained
They sabotaged lifts and all walked but nothing was gained
They huffed and puffed and blew themselves to absurdity
They planned and plotted only to see boredom engulf the crowd
Ne'er to do the foot-slog, ours is to laugh at the Wigan pier
What is idle rest, I laid my hay long ago and made my peace
With the catatonic curses, and scatological invective

If the mill laborers know what I know
They will see wasters working hard to make more waste
For theirs is to work and fret, berate each other and work
From birth till death to ghosts already remembered
Above the antique mantel
An educated mind would entertain the thought of numinous reminiscing
An excellent habit, to focus at the elephant that cumbered the room
The dearth feeling that was filled with scarcity, memoirs lay strewn

Like the law and edicts, that flustered the mind
Clinton and his economics liberalized my mind, but, piqued the market
I read these in papers of the age of dying punk, and gregarious bylines
Witty writers pen their names in bold, on pen and paper meant for the literate
A kind spirit lies in the artist within
Reminders and unneutered plants are willfully disregarded, with the milk untouched
Spiritualism is stolen from my doorstep, sold to ragamuffins and rapscallions

Exchanged for the dream of more reading, with an understanding of the antiquated climate
Dostoyevsky, a small-time Russian who stole the hearts of many, living by his word
Told us of crime and punishment, with a large intelligence and deep heart
The darker the night brighter the stars
In the empty sky, I offered my confusion
Failure is not our punishment for laziness, its other people’s success
It’s our hunger that floats on the surface of other’s hatred, more like oil and water
Russia was a bed of gelid ice, unable to tell the approximated difference
I make approximated decisions with calculated assumptions, and all my dreams turn to ashes
Years past, and this knowledge brought me peace in my last try at catching the sky
Catching falling stars, and preserving nature
Some poets of the fall, prefer the winds of change instead of sprig icicles of spring lust

The gold that flows, through our elaborate veins,
The crop that is known, by many names,
The gift that alleviates, our daytime pains,
The commodity that plays, one too many games.

Our world is nothing, but a bottomless mine,
Simply waiting, for the wrath and plunder of humankind,  
Oh labourers please, wait your spot in line,
For it was not you that made, this incredible find.

You’re a fool to think, the system needs a redesign,
For your fate and this chain, are forever intertwined.
Stay in your corner, as they wine and dine,
For it is you not them, contained by this chain’s bind.  

Posing as a gift, that elevates their daily grind,
The brown gold is no longer, part of your bloodline,
It was their chains after all, that made this incredible find,
For it now flows away, from the Plateau’s skyline.
  
You continue to hope, for these chains to be redefined,
But to imagine you even exist to them, is asinine,
Yet you believe a consumer movement, would be so inclined,
For you forget that chains were made, to always confine.

If you are a bad child
in the eyes of your parents
they sigh
oh, what shall

become of you?
Others are harder, they scold
you and demand respect
for the authority

of faith and customs
They think you are a nihilist
because they don't understand you
and because you do understand

you cannot argue with them
But you try
to explain – no matter how nil
the rules are, there is one anyway:

do the others justice

I probably love the truth
And the Truth is poetic
I propose that poetic lines be banned
Does that sound poetic

We go about ordered lives
No waves, ripples, just surging
Tide, not noticing undercurrents
Disturbing depths, interfering
With our status quo, dragging
Under, the unwary who are tugged,
To where disturbance manifests.

They swim, fools, against
All odds, knowing they'll drown
If they once show weakness
But something drives them,
Until they surface for breath
showing themselves, rebellious
Causing foaming surf.

Mexican waves follow, courage
In numbers, crowd not individual,
Becoming the storm that has always
Been Brewing, flooding into the comfort
zone, telling the truth becomes a
Revolutionary act, that we know in the
End brings still waters again.