It Is...
A fantasy that nothing matters, that evil rules,
that the old lass across the road and through the trees
wakes up at night screaming in your dreams with six mules
laden with oak barrels full of honey, and bees
driven insane with the blues of being alive
at the end of Earth's time, anthropocene long gone,
the bones of cathedrals, the gold-dipped thorns crown jive,
half-buried in the sand of a new glass blown dawn.
Where I live, murderers have made a paradise
out of hell, play G.O.D, kill-joysticks firing
at Creation, the long journey to Man all lies,
a video game filled with false idols choiring.
What could I possibly know amidst such trouble?
Consciousness is gossamer, the mind a bubble...