Tentacles


Tentacles
Be it the dawning or be it dusk, the taking of the minds light, empty’s hearts. In no place is there escape, for empty hearts have no hidden refuge. Multitudes express no resolve to fight an existence of tyrant hopelessness, unwilling to formulate questions. Empty cavities of the head are sovereign in purpose, unidentifiable. The passion of growth and invention has morphed into lost knowledge, distant in order, while commerce grinds forward, paving over all seedlings but its own.
Speaking out in protest, those who have lived before the light was vailed deflected, endure ridicule from the dark shadows that spawn the haze. No truth is allowed exhale through the nostrils that vent them, the endeavor blanketed and beaten down by exuberant tongues. Performance of said act delivers zero comment from empty hearts devoid of light, for empty hearts have no hidden refuge.
What challenger chooses to deal with the vile fumes breathed in through no choice of vapor? All are condemned to walk back hands of time once thought to have been overcome and sealed by bloodshed of ideal patriot’s body and soul. Now blanketed with lies veiled as truths and fortified by capitol spawned through grief, the shadows offer up for all to consider, truth be lies. Imagine the disgust when the plate is held out and none sane partake, clearly all are full to bursting and puking from orifices the poison absorbed from daily exposure. The grounded stab their eyes out rather than view empty hearts devoid of light seeking no refuge.
Holding fast, a sprinkling of outside observers draw alleluia joy, squeezed like tears from sour fruit, for they predicted the events arrival. They now eat well, gorging on cornucopian darkness, holding breath, waiting to explode like bellows plugged. Notwithstanding they are specks layered and folded, taught to blend within all.
Protected primal meekness has advantage, for it knows not how to understand the myriads of hidden messages jetting thru solid walls on bejeweled microwave wings. Hooks and barbs melt in its presence gaining no foothold, yet the telegraphs keep coming, ever hoping to dent just one armor or shield. How meekness deflects these waves while riding to salvation is a mystery to those blinded, whose lack of light fosters no refuge in barren, dark, empty hearts.
What lies ahead is a look back; but be quick about it, for the slick beastie tentacles are rapidly issuing orders of destruction to their Skeletor disciples, commanding to willfully remove the archived witness that chronicled what once horrified but now is suave warfare. Arsenals of weaponized, Jack booted mercenaries descend upon democracy’s low hanging fruit. Carrying opaque cloaks, they move ever forward, draping unarmed guardians assigned to watch over thinly protected halls of justice. Eagerly these raptors follow orders broadcast and spewed out by capitalized corporate Oligarchs; a tried and true strategy based on Lethargic reaction common to bureaucratic courts, “Catch Me, Make Me”, the battle cry.
What have we become? Spawned from exploded star dust, now congealed and fortified into liquefied thought and spirit, ability reaches full circle, we can now make our stars explode. Regretful alas, there is a catch, thought and spirit do not equate to lessons learned. This seems a purpose eternal, round about, devoid of light; for empty hearts have no hidden refuge.

Tentacles

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