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The Polymath
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This or the Apocalypse
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1
In conduits we drift apart,
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There is vastness within and all around us.
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Though we may deny ourselves the thought
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That this was something real,
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I can finally say that I'm not dead yet.
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There are no chains as tight as
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The search for something real,
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How they burn the skin of the vehement.
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Both last known bodies of matter,
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Drifting into themselves.
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We're caught in the in the teeth
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Of our own temper,
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We are what we consume.
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You create what you are.
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Appeal, on which the ground you stand,
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Appeal, in the throes of death,
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Appeal, in a delirium of sleep,
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Appeal, for our strength is gone.
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Spoken by a man unbound,
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Taught beneath the hands in shackles,
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It has invited a scourge.
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What makes you think you give
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Of anything at all?
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The killer hides his face,
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The stoic waits his turn.
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We all had our chance.
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Apparitions show themselves
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Deep within ruminative voice.
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It is man himself who speaks at length
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Of wars that go unnoticed.
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And it is truly all you have.
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No blueprints. No warning.
Grant McFarland - [This Or The Apocalyps...
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