Icy, electric tentacles reach down from the sky, filling heads with the fire of ideas. Synapses, sonically booming in the silence of thought. As the conductors of this symphony of self, we organize chaos into expression. Dance to your own song and then pass it on. If they like it, the halls will fill with those who can’t hear their own tunes.
Make room, because the deafness is screaming from every corner of this experiment called human.
So few, thinking for so many. And fewer still doing their best to think the right things so that this lost little family has some honest direction.
Stand around like a city worker, beating a dead horse and yelling words that won’t stick to anything worthwhile. Go shopping for some vocal Velcro, return to the soapbox and try again. In any endeavour, repetition is the key to success. Don’t quit until you’ve won. Or until your horse is hoarse.
Beating the deceased hoarse, of course. It’s the famous Mr. Dead.
Another sonic synapse, booming my brains away.
What will they say when you’ve gone away? He passed this way, yesterday, but what he left behind is here to stay.
Paint a picture with colours, words, or sounds, and if this art conveys any honesty, it resounds.
Light, language, and music, dancing across mountain-tops, twirling through valleys, and skipping across the sky. Reaching magic fingers into forever and tickling the universe like the strings of an instrument.
Dead horses and drones called man, coming back to life when the horns sound from the clouds. Lifting a veil from eyes too simple to see.
Most are too frightened and lazy to save themselves by lifting a finger to save someone else. Pay the price for apathy when there are no excuses casting dark shadows to hide behind. The truth behind the lies stands strong through the ages. Eviscerate evil, and deliver the weak and foolish to a paradise they always had right under their feet.
Day after day, they failed to deserve it as it slipped away, and the mercy of mortality eventually laid their follies to rest.
They thought, therefore, they were. The thoughts they thought were mostly for naught, though, so who gives a damn? And what were they thinking, to let an imaginary power leave them so powerless? They gave most of their magic away to thieves who wanted everything, and who stole back later to take it all.
They didn’t see, because they chose not to see. And now all that’s left is for the few with vision to save themselves.
Journey into tomorrow with no baggage, and travel far.
Hope for the hopeless lies in less hoping. The lesson for them, however, is lost in the explanation of the concept. And so, hopeless they remain, floundering among excuses as they throw away the power to change.
Aaaahhh, the soapbox is only soap, in the shape of the box it came in, and now it’s rainin’.
Step down for now, and head somewhere higher and drier. Sing this sonic brain song for an audience with ears attached to minds that think. And argue with whatever ego needs to be right, over lyrics that mean the least.
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