The rhythm of the city, an emotionless machine, manufacturing reality, shiny but unclean. built on sand and fantasy, mirror of mirage, reflected on the silver screen and the chrome in the garage. Vision blinded by concrete, callused hearts enclosed, deafened by the drum beat, tongues too seared to taste. Masked by the drone of engines and chatter of the street, the still small voice is buried and the footpath isn’t seen.
Images and idols technologically devised, words of cotton candy dissolve before your eyes, intellect and science worshipped by decree, giving credit to illusion so the chained believe they are free. Fundamental skeletons in self appointed roles, clothed in robes of office but carnivorous of souls, speaking words that come from knowledge but do not come from light, letters leading spirit, adding darkness to the night.
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