Thursday, May 7, 2015

The mirage at dusk

Oh I saw those stars and stripes waving incoherently
in a puddle of the blue mirage... sadly waving a goodbye
to all that what once was proud and true of freedom's brave
from the mouths of the knighted knave. I'll not behave.

A sadly subjective commentary of belief gone bad, rogue
and very much in the clutches of the New gone bold. It's old.

Golden ripples in sateen threads, hold sway over grieving mothers heads.
It's not about money, or power or oil they sssaid. But what gives about the
the dying dead? Speech filled lies of hope from mysterious spies. No worry
they said, from unseeing eyes. Illusion can be choice to trump players lies.

So the belief systems are mobilizing everyday soldiers, before auspicious whys?

The children, in colors unnamed, come in brilliance amongst the dull and insane
playing out their heavenly game... to a world they forgot that was hardly to blame. Caretakers were promised to show them the way, but foolish beliefs
in perpetrated lies held sway. And they groveled and shuffled to the gods before them, not realizing that it was just another program. Techno-Media King was the distraction who ruled them.
An anthem that hinted of war and the glory of
dying that they had lived before... what a god damned bore.

Have no belief in what you are told, as stocks tumble and money is sold... paper promise is the new price of gold, but what lurks to steal US will never be told.

Or so the lowly gods were gleefully told. But waving their truth by a women's twilight
gives a pithy meaning to what we were told was right. A mirage in a puddle or on distant shore, a war-loving nation will cry a little more, until...
the women of children and innocents can state loudly... we'll not stand for this
ANYMORE. It is a gift of the spirit which the Goddess will state proudly.

So go on with your soldiers and military spies
you will never get over on a mother's crying eyes.
She has awakened to your war-mongering lies.
In golden threads of a forlorn and furloughed flag
lives the blood, sweat, and tears of a dream gone awry
by the gold and epaulets of another tyranny on the fly.
All isms are schisms (on which slavery abides)
whose time is over, good riddance and a welcomed buh-bye.

Even if it's only from my own jaded eye.

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