I ask myself, what does this mean? This life of black, and white, and green. What happens at that final scene, when curtains fall and casts are seen? Will all the actors reconvene? Will they fill the gap between the ones without sin who are clean and those that dwell in the obscene? I find it funny, this machine, it always churns out the foreseen, predictably forcing to quarantine the things that really should be seen. Well now I tell you, King and Queen, I rip the cover from your screen, exposing your elite routine just like the Saint of Augustine.
In the East, his thoughts attacked, and though the deck was oh so stacked, his arguments became so backed that they enjoyed a huge impact. Have I lost you? Yes it’s strange, see sadly in this day and age, the ones who think that they can wage a real war instead disengage when they’re thrown into the cage. They take their place upon the stage, with trembling knees they start to gauge the fear, the love, the hate, the rage, and then they put their pen to page.
Yet when you look them in the eye, they clam and crumble, and I ask why? Because this age of lights and screens, it lays the pavement to their means. They’re so accustomed to these scenes, conditioned from their tots and teens, that when you ask them what it means the only answer is “it seems”. It seems the point, though, isn’t clear, and when I think it’s getting near it fades away like Hathaway to Will Shakespeare.
I leave with this, what does it mean? Ninety-five or seventeen; dry land, free air, or wet marine, what lies in this dark, deep ravine that none will see till they’re unseen? My fingers comb this evergreen as my mind drifts to the unforeseen; I wait for my own Magdalene, and unlike those, the Philistine; await the promised figurine.