It’s a symptom, not the arbiter

of the end times, we sing songs and scream

from chaos into whatever comes next, it’s a transfer like birth

glowing in gloried pain, it acts as a swamp draining

big shots believing nothing now, posting ideas they can’t see

the ground as it comes, an accelerated future

explosion through the wall, into and through your eyes

you will see weeping, idiots who don’t understand

looking into a mirror, horrified by the face

they make without knowing that we are all puppets.

I want to escape, but my prison is within

jeering and cackling, horrid and joyous

at once when we join the fray, blood in our teeth

tasting of silvery vengeance, count the walls around

on four sides, boxing you in, a sad world

where you find yourself king.