By Chance Lunceford – Logocentrifugal
The source of our beginning, par for course we’re born forgetting, sets the oarsman t’wards the getting to the task that they are known for, and we vanish from the home shore.
Cold war is taking place inside the mind, so we mold more masks to hide our face so we don’t show more facts than we can face for fear of laughter and disgrace but that comes back to bite our asses, and then we either pass the blame or seek to find the answers.
The cancers of the modern world have formed up tumors plenty, because of all the space that’s claimed for promises then emptied, and also for the constant work perfecting endless tempting.
Bereft of warp the weft was left to court infinity alone; what was once weave and woven was pressed to leave the home and test the taste of freedom grown inside a petri dish of moldy test effects on cultures fed on centralized perfecter threats that grow in size and never get enough until they die.
We try to get by and set by a nice store, for threats might require more, we then try to pile hoards, forgetting why we started. The sun is setting on our hard-hearted selfish getting mine’s why I started, ’cause the heavens parted, and led me to you.
You led me to proof that never-ending truth and love are truly just the same a game for movements of the courses of the forces sent to choose and run, the rules are choose in some or lose in some and ask, “But why’s all the rum gone?”
Perhaps because you drank it all, I guess you couldn’t take is all, you found it hard to face it all, the face of your disgrace and fall, you couldn’t stand the pace at all, unraveled laces trace the falls of traveled days in thankless thrall to graveled graceless claims to all, dismantled aims will train to stall, just cattle slain in an endless train of pain contained and trained to never deviate from single-file slaughter, just heed the beck can call.
You’d rather guarantee your losses and fall in, than gather all your chips and go all in, then wonder why the plunder barely sees your ship before the raiders show, all grins, and put a gun up to your head while they gather what they wish.
If someone tries to tell you that this was really all your fault, you’ll tell them that they’re evil, that their words are all assault. Then you’ll try to find a way to hide your mind from time you take to find the minds both fine and great and bind them with the crimes you make to justify the alms you take, you must because you sob and ache. It’s not stealing when you rob and take if the feelings in the mob you make are mostly in agreement.
You hunger for the lies you’re told, and line up for the lies you’re sold, at least you know that ice is cold each time that you’re left in it. You’re thankful that the razorblades were really rather finely made, it made it easy to just slice away your service to the future.
Of course all this is just a dream, you still have time, adjust your aim and trust that truth will find a way to gift you with your name. Your claim on all that isn’t yours was training making prisons for complaining aching bitter hoards without the need for buildings. The choice is yours to live your life in efforts aimed to gift your light to those who’s eyes can see the sight and follow your example.
The extent to which you’re in alignment is the extent to which you win assignments from the mind that tries to climb up from the pit where lies can find us to the sky where lives can fly up high enough to fit the sight of all that can be seen within our vision.
Make this your mission.