For the greatest satire is reality
The future grabs me by the ribcage and drags me to the cliff's edge
I look down on only to find muddied water crashing against the rocks
The sun is blocked out by smog
The beasts and men alike run in the death spiral, a ritualistic frenzy,
a cosmic ouroboros consuming itself as there's nothing else to eat.
The hunter and the hunted bear uncanny resemblance.
You can barely tell the species by looking at chewed meat.
Everyone keeps asking of a future I can't see,
As I watch the familiar great end crawls slowly towards me.
It looks me dead in the eyes and asks me what I want my very last words to be,
I'm too indecisive to answer.
It needs to be perfect, it needs to be art.
If not, what was it all for?
Even in death, vanity clings like a dear friend. The burden to deliver, this is my compulsion to perform.
I battle with an urge to let myself become a tragic loss of potential creativity than a firm confirmation of mediocrity.
But even when I manage to drag myself away from the cliff edge, I can't help but sit beside the great beast and lament about the despondent future like old friends over tea.
Every plan, every hope lies dead in the muddied waters. There's no need to choose the crossroads when the field's on fire.
Every dog howls, every man cries
Remorse is the best case scenario for mankind, The worst, is acceptance of this deranged ant mill in which ourselves we find.
God is extinct, you were so busy with the holy books, the rituals and the peagentry, you missed him falling through the cracks of the sidewalk, buried under concrete.
He was rarer on earth than endanged species
your fumes of hubris reached the heavens before the tower of babel did,
He died with the dogs, with the insects you now rarely see.
He died with the many gory bodies incomprehensible from one another for the sake of one penny in the pocket of a politician.
All the crusades, the inquisitions, the conquests and the holy wars led by men of god. Shedding rivers of blood and viscera, in the name of a benevolent omniscient creator. As if that is not an oxymoron.
And all of it a farce for
'Oh you simple minded, soft fleshed creatures, your god was dead the moment the rock struck Abel.
He died with the first brother.
He died with the sons, and the mothers. And with every other nameless poor soul with a weak passport. So called holy land flattened to build a luxury resort.
Your machines imitate creation,
a mockery of divine inspiration.
So concerned with the debates of Where did we come from? Where will we go?
We forget that we are here now, despite every explanation, every bedtime story and belief.
Every biblical flood and its myriad of iterations,
Every ice age and every drought
And here it is unlivable, unbearable, inhospitable. All caused by the inaction of the capable.
This is not the wrath of god, whichever one you think has dominion.
It is unchecked hubris of the few and learned helplessness of the many locked in a depraved, hedonistic union.
I no need write poetry about the downfall of humanity, for the greatest satire is reality.
We are so brilliant and our cities shine so bright, the luminosity of it swallows the stars at night.
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