If I could count to infinity,
I would know all that could be measured.
There is nothing but the silence,
Of birds chirping somewhere close by.
There is nothing but a sense of fantasy;
And then it all fell down.
As if years of humanity wasn't enough,
We still live without a plebiscite,
Thinking, pondering nonsensical questions,
Erring on the side of caution.
Believing in something;
Hoping to add meaning and happiness,
Turning life into a monumental incident,
A knee-jerk like resplendent wonder.
As if everything wasn't novel enough,
What if the protagonist forgot to sneeze,
Who would earn the blessings of the writer,
Who would break a leg to be unique?
Who cares if the river flows
Or the factories work three shifts,
If the trees are cut
Or another skycraper built.
Why write odes or love letters,
When on some stupid monument
Built for apparent love in white marble,
You can scribble your name with blank ink?
What is the worth of the encomium
When every damn thing is really nice?
Burn the art, the books, the singers,
Add some calligraphy to the fire.
Years of asinine mortgaging of the soul,
"In dedication; To surrender; To love;"
It reads on a sponsored plaque,
In a temple of two-tongued rules.
The Gods rendered into stone,
Watch without shaving or waxing,
Covered in butter; Without blinking
As milk runs down their eyes.
The hills are mined and stolen,
Carried away in despotic trucks,
Who tempt you to "honk.Ok.Please.",
Warning though, "We two, ours one."
The rarefied aesthetics of a city-dweller,
A couplet to surmise the ancient thought,
History to be bulldozed-razed for trains,
Which will carry desperation to survival.
Enrage! novelty is dead.
Take a camera and capture what you can;
Write that thought down;
Or they might rot away in writ-less cold storage.
The Light Shines The Brightest
I would know all that could be measured.
There is nothing but the silence,
Of birds chirping somewhere close by.
There is nothing but a sense of fantasy;
And then it all fell down.
As if years of humanity wasn't enough,
We still live without a plebiscite,
Thinking, pondering nonsensical questions,
Erring on the side of caution.
Believing in something;
Hoping to add meaning and happiness,
Turning life into a monumental incident,
A knee-jerk like resplendent wonder.
As if everything wasn't novel enough,
What if the protagonist forgot to sneeze,
Who would earn the blessings of the writer,
Who would break a leg to be unique?
Who cares if the river flows
Or the factories work three shifts,
If the trees are cut
Or another skycraper built.
Why write odes or love letters,
When on some stupid monument
Built for apparent love in white marble,
You can scribble your name with blank ink?
What is the worth of the encomium
When every damn thing is really nice?
Burn the art, the books, the singers,
Add some calligraphy to the fire.
Years of asinine mortgaging of the soul,
"In dedication; To surrender; To love;"
It reads on a sponsored plaque,
In a temple of two-tongued rules.
The Gods rendered into stone,
Watch without shaving or waxing,
Covered in butter; Without blinking
As milk runs down their eyes.
The hills are mined and stolen,
Carried away in despotic trucks,
Who tempt you to "honk.Ok.Please.",
Warning though, "We two, ours one."
The rarefied aesthetics of a city-dweller,
A couplet to surmise the ancient thought,
History to be bulldozed-razed for trains,
Which will carry desperation to survival.
Enrage! novelty is dead.
Take a camera and capture what you can;
Write that thought down;
Or they might rot away in writ-less cold storage.
The Light Shines The Brightest
