Broken promises destroy lives once balancing on the precipice of hope
The beacons once lit now dwindle
The tides of change ebb where they once flowed
harrowing stories and lives laid bare for nought - nothing
Yet nothing prepares us for wholesale betrayal like the lives we’ve lived
We’ll eat your broken promises for breakfast Collect kindling for more fires on the shore
Gather our people Protect our stories
Nothing to see here nothing for sale Betrayal has its costs
Purveyors of false hope beware
A new winter is coming
Energy that distorts the minds eye.
Behold, desolate landscapes broken relationships poisonous people.
Trust no one. Take them down in your spiral of distortion.
Glorify then nullify. Burn those bridges. Revel in regret.
Remember, the road back is paved with a patience rarely found.
Hurt is habitual but habits can change. Broken things can be mended.
The last line Line them up for measure Measure by colour, by skin, by race
Race to the bottom, race to end End the race or be civilised Civilised or colonised
Colonised bodies, colonised minds Minds that resist the line Line them up for correction
Correction of thought, correction of action Action speaks louder than... Than thoughts that become words
Words are stripped of meaning Meaning is lost Lost meaning, lost culture
Culture is on the line Line them up for measure Measure by...
Every day seems the same Life: An endless algorithmic sameness.
Because you see what you need to see to make sense of this dystopian chaos.
Every day seems the same War: An endless battle for your attention.
You can't see what you need to see to make sense of this dystopian chaos.
Every day seems the same Love: An endless fight for survival.
Can you see what you need to see to make sense of this dystopian chaos.
They stole our joy. Ordered us back to this side of the line.
There was joy in our ways of knowing of seeing of doing of being.
There was fear. And their ways of knowing of seeing of doing of being were imposed.
You must settle for happiness said they.
You must inhabit this side of the line.
Pattern seekers map our souls in liminal space.
Seeing, knowing, feeling constellations of connections beyond the minds eye.
A cacophony of interrelation ebbs, flows and resolves into a symphony of comprehension.
‘Greater is the one’ knows the seeker. Truth is intangible as it fragments and reforms.
Maps are made,
yet the maker
is not the speaker.
The maker leaves beacons like repeating fires on mountain tops.
See the light, lest it die in the rage the pursuit of significance.
The package has been sent. Binary code on light wings travels. Destination determined by chance.
A blue hue pervades as she waits for her connection. Eyes drift as she sips her recharge.
The package has been sent. Energy flows relentlessly. Contained as if by will not design.
Purpose takes the form of movement as the recharge kicks in. ‘One last pass through c-space’ she thinks.
The package has been sent. Coordinates fall from the stream. Chance becomes opportunity.
A red hue pervades. This pass will be her final pass. The package has been delivered.
There’s a saying we have all forgotten. That it’s lost leaves it unspoken.
We grasp at words in a flurry of beginnings with no end. Beginnings with no…
She sat in the doorway contemplating the words out of reach She drank in the sunlight to keep the darkness at bay.
For she too was lost. Lost to the exchange of meaningless utterances. Each Iteration failing to complete.
Now that she had disconnected from the device designed to steal and remake stories. It was all becoming real.
