“Everything’s coming to a grinding halt” – The Cure

Stop.

Hate.

Cherish instead. Perish instead.

Feel our mortality. Feel our fragility.

Does death feel lust for our lush, fresh, flesh?

It slithers and lurks in the darkness, invincible and always victorious

Yet those who are alive, always strive, until we arrive at our meaningless ends.

“Who ever dies with the most toys wins!”

Whoever toys with death loses.

The crowds panic in a frenzy of self-preservation.

Others cling to the skirt of Denial, who caresses their blind eyes with long soothing fingers.

The enemy is always nigh. Seek out the enemy! Destroy the enemy!

Hate! Kill!

Start.

Stopping.

It’s only you against you.

Isn’t it always?

Embark at your discretion

Be discreet with your expression

At the meeting of man and machine

At one with plastic and steel

Glass window and wheel

In the dark tunnels 

Of neither here nor there

We acquiesce to its stubborn disposition

Unaware of our position

In a maze of amazement

Hastily hurtling helplessly

Toward our destination

 

Where do you get off?

It goes to show

When the doors open

They always know

 

So, don’t smile or flinch

Or move an inch

Lest you betray your composition

Of flesh and blood and intuition

In a place where words are taboo

I don’t think that you

Could get a word in edgewise

For a word to the wise

They are not mute

But in dispute

With the urge to vocalize

As lines of struggle

Mark every face

Mark my words

There is a place

 

Where we all get off