The spirit of resistance grows within anyone whose lost
accepting the planted seeds that have grown into roots
will help you cut them down to remove the falsifications of words
We cut to regrow, and then cut again
The process of a filter, built within life
To decipher the filthy hard worked hands,
the dry scratched throat, the thumping head ache,
the blood dried lips, the stale smell of urine and decay,
The vacuumed carpet in between your toes,
the fresh seamen on the towels.
How much death has Christ caused?
the lunatic? or the teachings of a god among men?
Query the thoughts of civilizations,
Past, present and future.
A system built to perfection for the control of souls.
Does Santa Claus bring you a savior for a place of animals?
Lucy never received such gifts.
The shadows of the cage weighs heavily on the newly cut grass,
No where to run, so man complies.
Shuttering, the intelligent are forced to swallow the approved cough medicine.
No more cough, no more hiccups.
Though the path of resistance is only subdued,
Life and death in the colosseum has turned into acceptance.
Running and perfecting the body, while the mind is molded
twisted and turning the roots of cough medicine as it settles into the fine dirt.
Though the old unbathed man at the bar poisons himself,
seeing double as the liquor calms the pain, Chicken?
The trapped man has seen death, and love, loneliness and control,
Feeling the rage of the devils anger laughing at his prison.
He knows the music plays no jazz
causing the yellow and the brown to whirl around the twister,
Smelling the towns of London and Birmingham
While vomiting in the dark alley,
melting into the running water down to the sewer, He hides.
“Institutionalize nationalism” repeats on the Jukebox,
The telly projects an option of peace if followed by a path that never forks.
But what is a life, if your only waiting to die?
What time does your wrist watch project?
Galumphing exuberantly through the war trenches,
racing hither and yon for the oil men, the business men;
Poor puppet entertaining the ideas of the dollar,
Just a matter of time before his strings are cut down.
No matter the vicarious puppet was only a serf.
Killed for a greater cause, The growing of American bellies.
Lines, molded in the sand by the victors
a child’s bullying game has been twisted,
Whats worse is it’s excepted.
The indigenous culture would never be the same.
Fire forged blade cuts the sun crisped skin,
Melting the product of their resistance.
Check mate. Profligate.