zaterdag 3 september 2011

IT MAY BE TOO LATE


The tricksters are begging now
The falsifiers wishing for something authentic
The tar pits drained of their blood
The oceans gasping for air
The minds littered with binary clutter
The zealots crave for realism
The sky screams for mercy
The meek stripped of their dignity
The soul barricaded
The dreams blown to smithereens
The dream atomic of the crazies
The hounds of hell set free
The four horsemen always get a table
The celebrity death pit
The creativity of the soul’s harrowing end
The stumbler keeps on stumbling
The mumbler keeps on mumbling
The door-to-door sales man with a suitcase full of anguish
The abundance of cynicism
The eyes blinded by blunt force trauma
The morons leading the blind
The sick kept sick
The fog kept thick
The rules over-polished over and over again
The door’s no longer an exit my friend
The pollution spins out of control
The diminishing of progressive goals
The web of deceit believed
The freedom of speech brought down on its knees
The Worm eats through the brain to never come out
The dancers no longer twist and shout
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