a patterned well-worn rut
we need magic not propaganda fools
pick its decayed snaggled teeth
dreaming putrid schemes
but first you must wipe yourself clean and extract your sanity from the daycare of snakes, lost in their coils chasing their tails. Surely you know how this ends?
But it would not last, this trip down the yellow brick road of bright shiny objects.
Their silence, a red carpet on which the powerful are free to flaunt their abuse to their world.
sometimes it’s genuine love but mostly it’s something else
Your integrity, In the corporate machine; See this grain of sand.
Stealing silence deadly winds her belches warn dissent, That’s the way, conclusion cold as witches’ tits, Robbing identities, strangling servants, matching half wits
Waiting in traffic just to be with you, I’ve missed you so, I don’t know why. Or it could be