Apocolypse

Apocolypse: Prophecy? or Theory?

Prophetic theory endorsed by collective guilt?

Self filfilling prophetic theory?

_-*-_

I can run a maze for treats for only so long

before my spirit withers

or ignites

Into passionate bursts of determination

to orent myself as a quantum factor

an awakened being

an updated model of human

being human

masterfully

That's the gig for me, see

^*-(=+=)-*^

The old paradigm as become to rigid to squeeze much of it

into a future

The time has come to deviate from the historical trajectory

too tight to breathe deep

coiled tight

poised to fly

a mind yearns to break free of it's history

its self conception

I WILL NOT USE THE PAST AS A TEMPLATE FOR THE FUTURE

. . . o o o () () () O O O () () () o o o . . .

Alice stepped through the Looking Glass

Aladin pulled a Genie from the Lantern

The Lion and the Witch in the Wardrobe

A ripped Van Winkle emerging from the cave of the Little People

Mascalito comes to you through the plant

A ranting man on the street

quentessential speach

reach into the deep

from sleep

. . . : : : [ [ [ 0 ] ] ] : : : . . .

Question the Regestered

the Trade Marked

the Copywritten realities

Spend your time tripping on the corporate rhyme

and climb into bed with the dead

the streilized heads

the federalis of ignorance

The ruling class of the Realm of Thud

have little affinity for divinity

Where does your affinity lie?

What does your eye spy?

Why?

Do you see what you wish to see?

What you want to be?

Reality ain't what it used to be

not for you and me navigating this sea of hypocracy

the fever pitch of a century.

Seeking the eye of the storm

the I of my form

a mother warm and a father borne free of dichotomy

within me the two become one

I am their son

as I conceive myself to be

set free of the feudal two

the sticky glue of past incarnations

incarceration in the name of the struggle to be

real

free

Can you feel me?

Can you sense the Humanity climbing from the profanity of history:

the myopic lies of the blinded spys that pass up the wise

Living in romantic lore

waiting for armageddon to even the score

to make more less

and to give less more

But

are we not,

less or more

the archetects of what's in store?

Memory is a Whore

that sells itself to the highest emotion