Staring off, into a hallucinogenic scar
Of a. Man that used to frolic,
I notice their eyes dwelling in its luggage,
Seeking diamonds of speculation though
Some might think of this as attention.
It burns in its atoms,
Hoping to observe shock.
Perhaps, a catastrophe.
Perhaps, an awakening,
It’s up to the magical world of the mind
To procreate perspective on that
Cacophony of benevolence, as
A mother does when presented their child,
By means, of surgical hands,
Concurring it’s value,
Like a beauty salon,
Signaling its importance
By rendering eyes to acknowledge its
Constant self transforming,
While dollar signs kindle their way through the Amazon to confrontation,
A song The Spectacle knows oh so well
While society dissects in its cultural forms,
Like Yahweh,
And “you don’t know what you say”
Or essence of Christianity,
And Tathāgata.
Brain dead poet,
Lost in the slums of
Originality and inspiration,
A hue of blue,
What else is new?
The changing of the guards.
