B76 … shut down locked up, on the way out

We been shut down locked up manipulated and confused. Time dangling off limps like false exits. Division honoured like a king. The whole world crumpling like a wooden tomb, wasted and ruined. The narrative, the script as old as the lazy canals. The cut, deep as a knife to the heart, a needle of plastic, a serum unhuman and foul. It has been prophesized in every language, every book on the earth, made of mud and made of word. Trees do whimper in the eyes of the fools, rivers bend slow across your neighborhood, songs disappear in the chill of the night, everything just isn’t right. Your head in a hat made of fresh skin and the door knobs stolen, the walls cavin in and you walk straight thru like you know the next move but you’re dead wrong, stuttering, frothing and stumbling along, warped into the wasteland. You wonder if maybe you have been mistaken, if the truth was just a string of facts smothered by a great lie. You question your words as they fumble out across your tender lips on through the black musky mask shielding your every breath, stretching out into the sequence of orderly conditioned minds, it fades. The night is growing darker, the chance of escape more slim. The rules are bouncing off the streets, the silence is growing louder, death is sliding in across the wounded air. The herd of tainted souls are moving closer to the wall, the entrance to an end.

For a few, light is hiding in the night and the way is certain thru the uncertainty of form. A simple trust in a faith beyond the turmoil of time and the destruction of life, a knowing that nothing really matters along the trail of pure sight, nothing but the walking, the walk into the timeless space of discovery, the frontier of song, the simple moment for now is the only way out.

He left like a night into the mystery like a man walks thru a door and fades along a deserted highway and that was that. People went on, suffered to the end, their cells contorted with an unnatural biology, a foreign metal, a transmitter, receiver, a brave blue odour of regulated life, deteriorating along a path into a lost world.

writing and images by patrick wey

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