Aligned and maligned, until one is
allayed.
Believe you me, it's better this way.
It's better if you don't try to put up a fight.
It's fairer if you don't seek to try to design
a better torture.
A braver fall.
A sense of the impending closure that will doom us all
to obsolescent industry.
To agricultural time.
To depression, and anxiety, and mental health so declined
it is a wonder how so many of us have somehow survived
The sound and the Furies, signifying hurting.
The profound and the Lurid, testifying flirting.
The doomed and the Pallid,
a creeping deserting.
An arid city,
a gentle, torrent wasteland.
Over the hills and valleys I climb,
until Birnam Wood
come to Samarkand.
Until everything of who I am
is compressed, suppressed, refractured and jammed
into obliteration
into devastation
into the awakening of every lost, unrememberable nightmare.