There is a fog of decay in the fabric of two thousand years.
Like walking through thick honey strained by angel hairs.
To keep working for a dime,
And giving up your dear time.
For a world so bleak and sterile,
Where neither man nor bird is virile.
For a future bereft of beauty and magnitude,
All that’s left is the art of empty platitude.
A maze shaped like Man, surrendering to Woman.
Beating with every breath, the holy union of man and labor to death.
Now the union is of man and employer,
Cheques signed monthly by the birth destroyer.
And all the little moments left, of peace and relief.
Are now nothing but vice, and seeds of future grief.
And whether it destroys your soul,
Doesn’t even matter, because you’re still poor.
But dear Man, don’t fall to death.
From the cliff of sick contempt.
Do not hate and do not fester.
For unlike the slaves,
You can speak and write for days.
But you won’t, I don’t know why.
So please abandon being shy,
For the world will fall to violence.
If you keep your vow of silence.
Signed and unchanged since 5/3/2026.