Radiation Will Be The Judge To Which You Will Testify

Dying for Time

A thousand peasants die in a floodstorm of destruction, 
interior decorators would not appreciate the scene,
their furniture and picture frames coming outside the veil of flesh
Where is the emancipation, and when will it happen?
Your hands, and mine, tied in knots of cylindrical bane
Words and Platform wisdom surround, creating the haze
choking on the pollution, putrid tastes of terror,
ham-fisted proponents of the present march,
but breath the same nonsense
The peasants don’t digest food, the same as you
G.I. tracts of the poor, except more
and deal with less, the same
you all dress the same
your themes bellowing from the corners of grocers,
a lame attempt at becoming worthy
while darkness feasts on turbid desire,
the filthy still hunt by diving,
forgetting that, it was for your stunts, they’re dying 

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