Screams from the fibers of being,
Your mind is fried in the wake of an afternoon deadened sun,
It is time for the year ins bett gehen,
Down it goes; it goes circling over the horizon—
The absolute insanity of it all; traversing seasons
Upon seasons
the plane circles down, caught aflame.
Where is the mind-numbing rot coming from?
Inflame the spirit on one side,
Destroy the brain on the other
For I relinquish my body to the unholy
machine of factories,
Rhythms, drums, decadence in a moment but despair in the next;
For I substitute my soul with a thing designed to crave attention,
It ensnares, ruptures, distorts the very being of my mind.
No more! To the trappings of shiny baubles
Which stick out of supermarket windows—
They are designed to lure and captivate,
Designed to eke out the very blood and bile of your frame.
You always become a slave to your passions,
What passions are yours to unfold?