11/07 More smoke and mirrors. |
They're not scared and they're not compromised. They're just doing it. And it might be OK but I'm no longer healthy; this is their fathers' war. Welcome, for it's 5am somewhere, 30 degrees someplace. A bloody thrill. They'll get up like they always do and get ahead like they're supposed to, never minding the cautions the wind forgot to bring. In the mirror perhaps they're perfect but to me they're merely fog for the trees and I'm a man they can only say no to. Saintly saints; their heaven awaits while they pass down heirloom bombs like buried memories in long lost catacombs of human treasure I struggle to defend. If it's true you can't help what you can't see then they've blurred the line between the unseen and the make-believe. I never used to mind so much but when I did they became so passionate; I was led into believing them for all the lies they left for me to unfold. Kiss me love, I'm hopeless (again) and this is not how I choose to behave: sick and living in fear of what our forefathers left for us to clean up and attempt to rebuild without a clue. There is no defense to their ironic missiles and I am of shallow command. All I have is hope without ammunition and rain but no clouds. I remember how it used to be and how it worked out so that there was no such worry when I was a younger man but that was before their confusion settled in and wrapped me in their blankets of war. They roll it out as fast as they can make it; so quickly that no one seems to notice until the worst takes hold. Suddenly, nostalgic minds cannot get by on revenge alone. By counteracting with silence they will win and retalliation by verbose grandeur will get me killed. I refuse to succumb to the elected terrorists we love. There has to be a way, coming at any time or place, to unplug this backwards evolution and clearly see the damage our trusted leaders have led us through. |