What never changes

Run afoot the flame, cold fire in separate horror.
Entail, all the stories, confusion and malice, the shock of ages that seems to put off the flame of existence.
Bury it, notify next of kin, only to find that nobody came to care, no profit, no loss.

Scream, avarice and gluttony.

We the distinguished dead, lay to pay entrance, two golden coins.
Note however the price has changed.
Note that we have come to a standstill.

Douse the flame with gasoline, get drunk on napalm.
All idiotic, craving down and carving in, the students of self-destruction.
Escalate the notion, the war was always our pact.

Charge ahead.
Cut the countless loses.
You never looked back.

Canvas overhead, bound and blind innocent.

Do you still know someone like that?

Diagrams and pointless routine

The clairvoyance of sorts, that leads down this path of forgottenness.
Jump in, follow in suit, you only know the page that needs to be read, alas, not the words that need to be heard.
The structure that would lead to the path, to the way to follow, inscribed in blue paper, rebelled and destroyed itself.
For consciousness of honor lost, so should the ashamed be forgiven.
It matters not.
If the sense were indeed left for the sentence, the sentence would gladly be left to be read, but with no one to know where to find it, the words have lost the meaning and the pain is strong and unmourned.
I would call for qualms of balance and temperance, for still rhythm and logging passage, to follow, to be on the way, for once lost, we know not how to reclaim.
Wake up.
Arise.
Get ready.
Eat.
Leave.
Enter.
Clock in.
Eat.
Clock out.
Return.
Ride for self-destruction.
Shall it sit in dismay? Reclaim to revive or simply follow the same path, the same pathetic excuses, the unwillingness to re-access the situation…
Wake, sleep, repeat, repeat, repeat.
Then should it be sent to the drawing board or the butchers board?
Should the plan be denied and defiled, forgotten, lost in arms and has simply non-existent, toss and turn, revolve and revolt.
If you cry for the words, the worlds won’t understand the writings.

It’s all rather pointless, obtuse and imbecile.

Synthetic

The passing clouds
Waves of light and confusion
Clamor and childlike delusion.

The sounds
The festering wounds on the ground
The silence.

The science that claimed religion
Unclaimed the roar of passing leaves
Spelled confusion and disbelief.

Invisible
Lain and put to rest
Clocked, loaded and cocked.

It is, in reality, all artificial
The sight and sounds that confuse
The river that must flow to nothingness.

Artifacts that are left in the rain
Rotten and lost to dismay
Ethereal sensation of endless negation.

Plastic
Unable to be corrupted but re-fabricated
Dull and without purpose.

Insane and disconnected
Left to the world, juxtaposed
While the blind man must lead, the deaf scream to follow.

It is the situation that you reclaim.
It is a chapter written once again.
Synthetic, just like you were.