Overture

001 Overture

The pants whose knees have since been scarred by life’s

Journeys, woven with hands lashed to guilted

Looms, brave their days buoyed by nature’s good eyes.

Spoken motives camouflaged by wilted

Innovations lash themselves to bodies

Not ready for revolutionary

Conduct unbecoming tasks beyond these:

Work, suffer, die, and be forever free.

The joy of escape is thus far odeless.

Except for the sounds of extinguishing

Neurons once patterned on conspicuous

Moves to push consumption levels gushing.

But the hope is there, and wanted by all

Of us whose still mortal faith is installed.