Just try to escape.
A referred pain,
all over the body.
The sickness of kings,
of sovereigns so noble.
The leeching and pleading,
binding word to a debt they'll never have to pay.
Devoid of contribution.
An abstract evolution.
on the dead,
A voice descanting poetic oblivion;
the death aesthetic,
as dancers around the shaman pound the earth and shake bells at the sky.
Ordered chaos of an interpretive design.
Watch me revert back to my poisonous self,
the carcinogenic reality.
Is there really any fresh air anymore?
Only retaining heat because of our atmospheric shield.
How long do you really think you'll last,
out there in space,
the great beyond,
without major reconstructive alterations to your structure.
Stand as you do on earth,
unique to its conditions,
but a part of billions of the same particulate.
The universe will consume you,
but it will not become you,
you will become of it.
A product of environment.
and tuned up;
Humming along nicely
The director knows the right lens.
The writer the right lines.
The actor knows the right cue and mark.
And the audience knows only what they're told.
Even then it's hard to digest