THE CYCLE THAT NEEDS TO BE BROKEN
Old stories, the tales what might have been
Now swallowed, by the grief of what was never to be seen
The painfulness and exhaustion of trying, the hope gradually nullified
Their mind remains the same, but superficiality crucified
The energy enters inside of many more new hearts, new hope
But like those who past before, belief is hung and killed from the rope
This rope, it's fabrics made up of society's morals, the unquestioned traditional
Each thread entwined in accordance with rightful principle
Magnified, it's material runs lines along with the humiliation
Humiliated, because part of the entwining thread decided not to exhale the noose's pollution
Those whose hearts would find the new hope and energy like those that past before
Those who believed that those in need would benefit by those outcasted, personal individual law
The same cycle goes on, unquestioned, like the politics of nature and survival itself
A burning paradox, consciousness exemplified by those who's egos gain from others' ill health
The sun remains high in the sky, the moon still appears at night
Still time for breakfast tea, so why the need for all this effort and fight?
There's still happiness and smiles, from people in their mansions and castles
Still love from those with misguided reason, can't see no reason in this argument and hassle
Our plates are still rich and full with fresh sort meat, our community does not suffer from starvation
As an animal's body is slaughtered, a child's skull is crushed, such a proud and patriotic nation
A whitewashed picture is presented to those with blank minds
The alternative stifled in the rope with it's fabrics entwined
A never ending cycle, or a question of knowledge?
The importance of thought, or the importance of courage?
Weighing up priorities, action and thought, knowledge, resistance
As the noose's grip tightens on those who's whitewashed mind had never experienced
Reasons and excuses, to soften the anger, to those who's feelings spread to others
Reasons and excuses, nationality and patriotism, interests and "us and them", families and fathers and
mothers
All ploys to misdirect our eyeline, away from the crushed child's skull
Laying there, in the mud, the meat and the brain rotting away, the deathpile is full
As the sun stays high in the sky, drying the mud, burning flesh and bone of the eyeless skull
While in another land, the moon in it's grey glory shines over the nightmare nightime cull
Anger still boils, but the light is on low, as the fabric extinguishes the hope
A reflection from the past, a repetition who's optimisism has faded in their lost battle to cope.
© Punk Is Dead 16 (2003)
PunkIsDead@aol.com
Published on the internet, with permission
