Nothing candid for me,
thanks.
I like the planned. The known.
The contrived.
The professional.
The way I can’t
feel
inside.
Skeletons.   Mirrors.
It’s so sad that we have to explain that the symbol only matters if we agree on its meaning.
Society doesn’t want to agree that we don’t begin to teach
life’s important milestones.
The corporations sold government at least thirteen years of mandatory education
the breaking of the soul
for a life in a cubicle.
Earn, or die
on the street.
A shell that never knew,
never had a chance.
Just waiting
to be buried.
Oh, but the flashes. The sparkles. The lust and
amusement.
What it means to actually be alive — reduced to a few replayed moments.
The poisons, sanctioned
and otherwise.
The offer to **** everything else.
No rewind.
No delete.
The punches we never get to throw.
Our faces — always that attempt at “best we’ve got.”
The days that pass where we
can’t imagine what
or why
anything matters.
How do we learn the skills that transform us,
or give us the promise to set us free?
Do we think
of this as a time that could even belong to us?
The forced meaning we shove onto
our suffering.
Truths we’d rather never
revisit.
Filters inside of filters.
Inside is a shriveled, ambiguous thing we used to think
of
as an inner child.
What if it’s an old man?
What if it’s the Minotaur with no red thread?
What if the maze is
us,
and
we’re fine wandering?
The escape we wanted was from everything — especially ourselves.
( A self most of us wouldn't recognize, have never actually confronted and were never given the time or space ... to really ever, get to know.).

A phalanx of hooded human figures preceded the undead horde. It's unbelievable how you can just feel them coming, before you ever see or hear them. It's like the sickening, disorienting sound of swarms of locusts devouring crops. It forces all to keep their eyes transfixed. Closing them for even a moment fills the mind's eye with the horrid thrum of hungry insects. The image of millions of tiny mouths chewing and gnawing, the endless numbers of wings in flight sweeping down to consume it all.

Dusk seemed to stretch or skip, starting and stalling in dreamlike intervals, caught somewhere between moments. Every heartbeat, each new bead of sweat, colder than the last. Atmosphere so tense and baited, as if time itself was being pulled and distorted, jerking in blurred, fragmented motions that shaped into a terrible, building weight. Even the slightest sounds became inexplicably warped, like the reverberation of some unseen bell ,distant, drowning, sinking deeper into the unseen depths of bubbling, murky waters.

Creaking and groaning, the subtle rattling of  heavy old chains and the clinking of  dilapidated armor never ceasing. Shivering wicked cold spreading out in front like a creeping  inexorable glacier. One could feel it deep down in the pit of their stomach, crushing and rendering inconsequential everything in its path. Vacant unidentifiable hellish sounds stolen from a dream exquisitely complemented the deep bass chanting of so many human males. Upon becoming enamored by the spell-like quality of it all, one would forget their earthly worries and struggles, in a mind-numbing psychosis.

Deeply colored robes, some pristine while others no more than sackcloth burial wrappings riddled with myriad holes, flapped and swayed in the slow wind. The thick incense swirling slowly around them created a dreadful fog-like effect. Tiny torches, carefully  proffered by the smallest among them, were positioned strategically to avoid saturating the scene with too much light. A faint, orangish glow perfectly  accentuated. the reds of the roses and rubies, subtly illuminating. details they wanted  eyes to be drawn to with exacting precision.  Red roses, ribbons, and highly polished, oily-looking rubies adorning their forms radiated starkly against the age-worn, bright white or tan of the many bones.

Each costume was purposely chosen to create a visual effect that was both hauntingly beautiful and profoundly terrifying. The play of light and shadow, coupled with the macabre elegance of their attire, transformed the scene into a nightmarish tableau, where beauty and horror intertwined. The chanting grew louder, a symphony of intrigue and a somber yet evocative fantasy. Many feel it as a primal fear that resonates through the bones, filling the air with an atmosphere of ancient, inevitable longing and mystery. The sonorous chanting rose and fell, its hymnal a lugubrious dirge of resonance and longing, as if it had been moaned into transcendence  long before human voices had even learned to shape words. It hummed beneath and between ribs, sinking, enveloping the deepest marrows, stirring something universal—arousing and primal. The entire scene was a chilling, hypnotic display of decay and artistry. Thick and far away, breathless awe spreading through the gathered crowd like an invisible tar. And there they were, gathering  pushing wading willingly, deeper, farther.

Cloaks, hoods and wrappings intentionally concealed weapons and sinister implements. What was left to appear harmless, like a tiny dormouse or an empty fleshless hand, added to the intentional creeping sense of unease. The procession exuded an aura of the darkest, most moonless night, drawing all who saw it into an eerie, dreadful trance-like ambiance.

Shambling effigies formed from the thickest femurs and adorned with prehistoric skulls, many bearing multiple horns and limbs. Appearing now as creatures, crafted from the remnants of ancient, giant lizards and mythological beasts, evoked a sense of the eternal and inevitability of certain death. The frozen skeletal "grins" of so many exposed teeth seemed to mock true smiles all too cruelly.

Home is where human spirit and effort unite,
Shelter, care, and love, warmth and light.
Cradle of armor and invitation,
Sanctuary of growth, pride, and imagination.
Shelter from the storm, penultimate destination,
From celebration to recreation, this is the place our lives should happen.

No one should get to label it a "hippie liberal dream."
If they begin that rhetoric, let us drown them in a scream.
The world should demand it, insist upon its due,
For shelter, nurture, and love should be a possibility for all,
For everyone, especially me and you.

A home can be pride made tangible, a legacy to guide,
A respite for effort where hope should abide.
We can do it
We must
We can.

The truth though
Is that we have never really tried,
Despite those freezing on the streets
And all of the tears we have cried.

Greed is not better or bigger than all of us.
It is time to stand up, speak out,
And let the corporatocracy and oligarchs feel, not just hear,
That enough is enough.