The past taunts and teases us,
like old lovers.
The future forever belligerent, predictable, and o'
Laughing brings about aging, and I feel as old as I choose.
The inconsistencies of life are numeric,
what's the point of wondering?
Politics the rich man's game,
death the soldiers,
and honesty is like a disease.
Strange looks, and curious words
define so called generations.
But without anything to sustain is their really ever such a thing?
Nouns fly off the pages,
as our language is butchered
on all your spaces as we speak.
Empire crumble and banners fade,
but what of humanity?
Is it not the next Rome,
corrupt from the in side out?
Falling away as barbarians take root.
What is there to sustain us?
No great Confucian bureaucracy,
no four armed gods to pick up the pieces.
So let's all walk on water,
and cross our fingers
the worlds at it's brink
so what it?