under the silent cries of a tearless sky
human will remain human,
and witness as humanity gets crushed under the handmade boot
invented to protect humanity from what humanity denies.

it’s all a farce, a badly written poem by a lousy poet,
a painting done to please the masses:
blood, gore, and sadness in the form of a mother holding her dead child
while planes seek revenge on beings who had long forgotten flight.

politics, a bad comedy written by contradictory minds.
divine, as Dante said, divine!
lacking divinity in spite of being divine.
giving a place and comfort to formless and abstract structures
to occupy and divert the attention of clean rooms of dark and haunted minds.

let’s take a pill, let’s take two!
let’s lie in couches and whisper utopian ideologies
pretending we’ve discovered truth.
in figures of light, shapes that evolved from what human was
and took form to become what human claims to be.

generations and generations built upon patterns:
‘how to be” “how to become” “how to look” “how to see”
how to sing and dance and draw and write and play…
manuals, written upon knowledge derived from knowledge
and put in pocket books, to look– as truth is supposed to look.

truth– but truth was nothing more than what it was decided upon,
nothing more than the shadow of an imaginary shape made of dust
leaving specks of dust for a being made of dust to chase.
and we fell, all of us! – each carrying a rock the size of an ant
screaming and yelling,
“I have it, I have what you all lack!”


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