Rabble

There's a gun through the trees,
With a man behind it,
As we smear the ground with funkiness,
And the people all run wild.
When we've all let go, completely,
The factories make no sound.

As we forget, we've all forgotten,
As freedom then sets in,
We've forgotten what's important,
Apart from what we think's important,
Which is only what we're into.
Final, mindful, mindlessness.
Pure reality, we can't explain.
The nothing, in our brain.

As the trees stare on,
They don't care about us,
And the growing throng,
The jabbering, shouting rabble,
No longer refined,
As there's nobody left,
To remind us,
Or define us,
Because everything's here,
Now everything's gone,
And we've finally, lost our minds.

The healing of the words

The healing of the words
identification seeks
as oil applied with aloe
consolation, as it speaks
false histories that we know
engineering the absurd
authenticating all meaning
as we grasp at truths unheard
the searching of our heart
the hole within the soul
separates each part
and leads towards the goal

The places that I went

I look at my life, and its incoherent reversal, its actors & agents, quietly withdraw, and are replaced by people who no longer care.

Whether this is eventually proved to be hiatus, depends upon what comes next. When the ones you gave your life to, reject you, the choices become starkly clear.

Rebuilding a new life, just one possibility, looks to the unknown, a brighter hope, of better.

Returning to the old one, going backwards in time, to soiled remnants and the broken promises, that I couldn't keep. Better not to make anymore, just in case.