In a tidal wave of surrealism gone wild,
The Masters of reality have imploded,
Proven beyond a shadow of a doubt their fallacies are waste,
Wanton lot they eat their own children,
Biting the hand that feeds them until the fingers fall off,
As they starve in their feeding frenzy,
Only cake is left,
Full of air and chemical nothingness.
Creatures with huge ears and pointed teeth,
Carrying gilded canes and dressed in,
Fool's gold foil suits,
Rents and tears in their façade scream open,
As the world sees the empires with no clothes,
Delusional and not even realizing their own suicide.
Wisps of false gold smoke drift lazily into the sky,
But the rest of us have already left the dream,
Only awaiting a new vision to replace it with.
Their sky may be falling and their ground fallow,
For us it's still the blue above and naked earth below,
We must breathe life back into it,
The sweat of our brows falling into the still-wounded seas,
As we clean up the dreck and wrack of their plutocratic eewtopia,
Becoming light itself,
Shining brightly upon all the failing shadows.
By: Daniel A. Stafford