Before the Sound Was "I."
Sonic malignant waves touch all in their wake;
Shrill, pinching sounds, unhealthy tonic of embedded harmonics
Roaring to unholy rhythms, progressive artful resonant fusion,
Sweeping over RNA neuron pathways of God in a hell-storm of confusion.
The planet of our unconscious world is a distant dilated pupil,
Hanging in Satan's firmament, closed-eyed and fearful,
No longer a shining star emanating goodwill and gentleness of Soul,
A synthesized construction, paced and placed to the beat of discipline.
The sleeping mind hears naught but bliss and octavian leads
Tugging on heart strings leading to labyrinths of slavish minotaur.
Our world is built on undulating forms, stiff and rigid,
The harmonics of control, the science of robotics.
A grand orchestra of Oz plays a frontal lament, a guitar gently weeping.
Yes, we all cry and sway, utterly fatigued by the dance of poly-fragmented characters,
As we stand back and watch our human-ness undulate dimly on the wall.
Truly life is spent in pursuit of real music...
And yet from wretchedness, behind it all, is the knowledge of harmony,
The truth of elements and true gods.
Where creation is built on symmetry and love.
A soulful wave of happy entities...we are Truth...after all.