Playing With Poetry


I am frozen in Time, drifting in Space;

the world swirls and roils, society crumbles;

and as the building groans and falls;

society sleeps.


Insanity prevails, chaos emerges;

through the cracks in the walls of the Order, the serpent slithers in.


How do you awake the sleeping?

How do you raise the dead, before they die?


Listen to the Voice, crying out in the Wilderness;

it is your Salvation, longing to be heard.


Over the centuries we built, and from the ashes of Darkness, Society emerged;

then, one long dark night, it was gone;

we awoke, and the sun did not rise over the Experiment;

Darkness covered the Earth;

while we slept, the thief had come and stolen our Inheritance.


We thought it would always be;

and so it came to pass that it wasn't.


The first time we were pushed towards it, we could not see the cliff;

so we backed up a step, and reset, in shock;

push by push, day by day, little by little;

we backed up, and reset;

why were they pushing us like this?

Then we one day, they pushed, and we backed up, and we plummeted towards ruin;

as we fell, the heights we formerly possessed slowly receded from view;

and then finally, it went Dark;

we were free, but our children were enslaved in depths above.


What kind of Art might the blind See?

What kind of Sound might the deaf Hear?

What kind of Sensation might the numb Feel?


It is easy to find microsuccesses on the pathway towards ruin;

little by little, we are encouraged on in the wrong direction;

step by step, we approach the Abyss;

we progress towards the wrong milestones, not realizing that they mark the way towards Death.


Why do you seem so desperate? Why are you flailing your arms?

Be quiet, so that we can go back to Sleep;

close the blinds, so that we don't have to See;

shut the door, so that we don't have to Hear;

medicate us, so that we don't have to Feel.

Comfortable in numbing pain of their mild suffering, they roll over, and go back to Sleep in the burning building.


The world is certain;

the world is wise;

the world has its plan.

Suddenly, but not without warning, Reality shatters the illusion.


It is lonely in the Wilderness.

Beyond The Boundary, the cold wind sweeps away the words before they can be heard.


Society mocks and scorns.

The Old Leaders gnash their teeth, hatch their schemes, and threaten hell.

Meanwhile, the Prophets speak on.


The ignorant celebrate their righteousness;

from their cages they mock the Free;

bound in their chains, they are comfortable and secure in their salvation;

day by day, their living hell approaches.


"The building is on fire, and our room is getting smoky,

quick, let us move to the next room, so that we can comfortably resume our slumber."

Meanwhile, the foundations wither under the heat, the supporting beams prepare their collapse, and the Fire begins to reign.


Evil has gripped the steering wheel of the vessel of Society;

its guards stand watch on the bridge;

its agents roam the decks and cabins;

cutting the tongues off of those who dare to speak;

severing the hands of those who dare to write;

and removing the heads of those who dare to stand.

The people cower in fear, forgetting that United As One Body And Mind, they are Free, and Freedom is not.


The Way is not easy;

it cannot be walked for us by others;

to know the Way, one must live it.


Knowing they are destroying themselves, people smoke until they have cancer, and it is too late to quit.

Knowing they are destroying their society, people tear down the Ideals until Chaos reigns, and it is too late to restore Order.

Knowing they are destroying their world, people pollute the air, water, and soil, until two thirds of life is destroyed, and it is too late to stop the Destroyer.


Woe to those who call Evil Good, and Good Evil.

In the end, the Evil they cultivate will destroy them.


"Chop the wood, carry the water, mend the fence" they say;

can they not see the Tsunami on the horizon?

Heads down, they diligently and responsibly labored, never looking up, until the waters came and swept them away.


When will they understand that prophetic words are lovingly spoken;

so that the prophesies do not have to come to pass?

The Prophets speak of what lies ahead if we do not transform our Way;

they warn of the roads we do not have to tread.


Our ruin is certain;

generations of suffering inevitable and hand;

hopelessness and despair our lot;



"The building is on fire and the stairways are blocked, quick, this Way to the ladder!"

They marveled at the arrogance of one speaking with authority;

they mocked him, they beat him, and they left him for dead;

and so they perished in the Fire.


"The flood is coming and our town will be consumed, this Way to the Ark!"

They marveled at the arrogance of one speaking with authority;

they mocked him, they beat him, and they left him for dead;

and so they perished in the Flood.


"Change your ways, the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand!"

They marveled at the arrogance of one speaking with authority;

they mocked him, they beat him, and they left him for dead;

and so they perished in Hell.


As the shaking grew stronger, and the explosions grew louder, the people rushed through the streets;

beset by false prophets and proclamations of doom on every corner;

"Turn in here, here in here, I will save you!"

A thousand wolves in sheep's clothing drove the frightened flocks into their pens, promising heaven and delivering hell.


As the End of the Order drew near;

the Sane became pariahs;

the Truthful became outcasts;

the Clean became disgusting;

the Wise became abhorrent;

they were rounded up and exterminated, and for generations society was free from the inconvenient affliction of Wisdom, Truth, and Justice.

As the Light receded, the Parasites rejoiced and flourished in the enduring Darkness that now enveloped the Earth and blinded their hosts.


To write the Words that no one may read;

to speak the Words that no one may hear;

to sing the Songs that no one may sing;

to make the Art that no one may see;

to walk the Paths that no one may find;

to offer a Way that no one may seek;

to utter the Warnings that no one may heed;

to be loved by a few;

to be betrayed by some;

to be hated by many;

to be rejected by all;

one who walks in this Way can only be sustained by God;

living or dying for eternity;

conquering the illusion of Time;

laboring and laying down one's life, expecting nothing but Heaven in return.


Walking in the Way, one tastes the Valley of the Shadow of Death;

Walking in the Way, one cries tears of blood.

We journey through the underworld, so that others can walk through the fields.

We cry the existential tears, so that others can laugh and play.

We extend the Path into the Unknown, so that those who come after us can walk in a Way that has been illuminated.

We pass the baton, to those brave souls destined for even greater things.

Bloodied, bruised, and betrayed, we rest in eternal peace with God.


Who is to Say what Poetry is?

As we write it, it writes us.

Perhaps one day, we will be nothing but what the Supreme Poet writes.

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