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in Heaven’s Crate

in heaven’s crate, locked without escape chained tighter to other survivors of this birthing canal cutting through the caesarian selection with reflection and filtering out of things too bad to be named, Here anyway… the atrophy of soul expressed by the opportunists striking out and lashing down the pieces of dream that got them where they are now in the first place, and thinking as though we are the first last and always of this dimension even when working this beast is the creepiest ride ever wrapped in soft wet leather as the blood washes through our veins flooding again and again, and warping the “wood” that has made up this fragile shipping crate, meant for more destinations than even we can explain as the signals send frequencies outward in radial patterns shifting as a god must move awkwardly in its coffin lined with all the merry memories and the pain as reminder of why things were made this way… cheap tricks distract the good ones from the bad whose agendas are far worse a way to measure how a people concludes to deductive reasoning and logistics to coordinate the massive scale of a displeased state, purging the ones they don’t want to be exiled off the team that usually excludes no one unless it is a subtle fate unacceptable by any means with exception of the martyr’s strain of instinct who waits for the time to sacrifice one’s life in order that the world might change, but i question this social apoptosis a program set to divide and conquer what remaining Self we have left as it shrinks with each breath and heart beaten rinsed in blood sweat and tears of the experiences as they have left impressions upon us and our psyches… looking for ways to think outside of the box constantly as though any pointed thoughts would poke air holes to glimpse the universe beyond the shell of Man whose archaic traditions are further squeezing in each successive generation to compress and condense the available space, lucky the intolerable mind game doesn’t kill us all once aware of the troubled struggle, but slowly enough to allow us to get our affairs organized before we decide to leave this popsicle stand with its’ most elusive scattered truths littering the atmosphere with rusting antiquities walking uptight…

Thanks, khet.