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.