Entity
God of War,
God of Sea,
God in you,
God loves me.
He created the birds and the bees
and the technology-
that we sit and stare into,
that we conquer,
as we conquered the Aztecs,
and the Natives,
and the terrorists.
Only to stare into blank faces in little boxes
we've created from the Earth.
And we suppose that everything is natural
because everything came from something natural.
Like evil,
like massacres,
like the kings we are we sit and smile
copying the faces of our leaders practicing sincerity in the mirror.
Calling everything falic
or claiming the wealthy are scared of death
so they surround themselves with distractions.
But isn't everything a distraction?
Like the sins we commit for this invisible God we bow down to.
We build shrines to Love.
And Love had a son named Murder.
Yet, we self-destruct.
Wasting eighty to one hundred years looking for the answers:
Why are we stricken with this plague embarassingly enititled emotion?
We- left alone in our intelligence,
in our false aristocracy
chained to our thrones
left to starve to death.
Slow enough so that we could hear the bones cracking from malnourishment
as our flesh shrunk into shards
exposing the guts that are in fact missing the evidence.
Left without even a clue to why we stand living to die,
ashes to ashes.
Fertilizing the cultivation of the garden.
Or have you not read it as well?
God of Sea,
God in you,
God loves me.
He created the birds and the bees
and the technology-
that we sit and stare into,
that we conquer,
as we conquered the Aztecs,
and the Natives,
and the terrorists.
Only to stare into blank faces in little boxes
we've created from the Earth.
And we suppose that everything is natural
because everything came from something natural.
Like evil,
like massacres,
like the kings we are we sit and smile
copying the faces of our leaders practicing sincerity in the mirror.
Calling everything falic
or claiming the wealthy are scared of death
so they surround themselves with distractions.
But isn't everything a distraction?
Like the sins we commit for this invisible God we bow down to.
We build shrines to Love.
And Love had a son named Murder.
Yet, we self-destruct.
Wasting eighty to one hundred years looking for the answers:
Why are we stricken with this plague embarassingly enititled emotion?
We- left alone in our intelligence,
in our false aristocracy
chained to our thrones
left to starve to death.
Slow enough so that we could hear the bones cracking from malnourishment
as our flesh shrunk into shards
exposing the guts that are in fact missing the evidence.
Left without even a clue to why we stand living to die,
ashes to ashes.
Fertilizing the cultivation of the garden.
Or have you not read it as well?