stonedsour's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Back of The Line I. I walk the path, leaving dead skin in the farbic of the past. Steps ringing with the tick of time. In unison they laugh. Stride for stride with the clock beside me. Destined to be last. A decay of the physical, contrasts with invisible, Time, encircling me, claws out, Stalked by the tiger, in my cage. Picking away at my friable shell. Quietly blowing my youth awry into the nothingness of the wind. ....(Purposefully).... with an eerie calm it toils. Like a veteran blacksmith, absorbed with a conscious methodical intent to preserve the order of things. All will return to the soil, to feed what once was victim, so that it may be victimised once more. For some. The End. For some. The Beggining. Spew forth your temporal gift, convulse your every morsel into the over-filled basket of meaning. Spit until your ravaged and gone. and your knowledge and thoughts putrefy inside your sick decaying skull. but...do not look downsome =) Abscond from the unsettling glare this burns in your imagination. Or you'l make comedy mute and dry. we're Queuing up now. For The Back Of The Line. All things return to the soil, you see, As recycled pieces that once we're you and me. II. Interface'd with stone indifference wired to senility. To never-age beyond resistance to re-emerging synergy. Segregated maps, possesive ownerships of history a geographic call of races entangled in their prophecies. Your death is the lesson you can't learn from a science of causality, Political infanticide, a violence called normality. Charters quote the laws of revenge the end of practicality, intervention must be fair, no mono-sided sympathy Your people are queuing for the back of the line. Your children are queuing for the back of the line. Your God is queuing for the back of the line. 2:19 p.m. - 2004-02-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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