a time has come

where all of the ideas
have been had
and the images we hope
to represent
have been shed
like clothes
when you come in out
of the rain.

the original ideas
have been spent
and all that is left
is the self,
the individual:
independent hopes
and dreams
shuffling off into the shadows

we are but moments
in time,
speaking the same tales
to warn lives of life.

we repeat the same mistakes
like tunes whistled
in the wind,
lost again to the sounds
of our own blowing.

repetition in the face
of reason
for the sake of sounds
sounding in the smoke.

some say
that the world
is becoming a deranged place.
but that is not so.
the world has always been
full of
wickedness and disgrace
with tiny lights of hope
shining
far off into
the darkness;
little flecks of love,
of reasoning,
of potential,
squelched by those
who cannot stand
by and let goodness be.

we have been making war
and hate
since the dawn of man.
we have created death
in the eyes
of imaginary gods
and let ourselves be
the mechanism
by which
the ax falls.

the disfigured acts
for which you see
are nothing new-
war is the same idea we've
always endured.
suffering is our
inheritance.
doom is our clenched fist
striking. child
has always killed child.
man has always beaten
down upon man.
woman has always
defied woman. power
has always led
to the want of more
power.

it is the idea of
survival
above all else.

but there are
more important things
than simply surviving.

and no matter
how many times
we repeat the same ideas,
we are simply mocking
our own deaths,
over and again
'till the end of time.
amen.