How it all works  


The stylists who willingly succeed the old guard

anointed by the trinkets of its presumptions

Sans shame of farce colour their parade full rainbow

and even that “borrowed” from the weather’s own grift;

Hollowed agents of the same, they stand corridor

where every step echoes to a metronome State

And spare their voices to portend richer noises

if ever to account to the people’s self-march;

There, they mourn national death in grand funeral

as once builders became gravediggers and buried

The performance to condemn performing as such

because tears of regret come where the water ends.



To dis-re-guard this dead cause and find real grief

outside the stale pattern of total anointment

Against the language of bare sentiment only

but to recolour life before it turns absent

The gap between prayer and action must be undone:


“Reclaim movement from the echo of its reason!”


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