Feelin' February
- William J. Archer
- Oct 6, 2018
- 2 min read
Icy, electric tentacles reaching down from the sky, filling heads with the fire of ideas. Synapses, sonically booming in the silence of thought. As the conductors of this symphony of self, we organize chaos into expression. Dance to your own song, and then pass it on. If they like it, the halls will fill with those that can’t hear their own tune. Make room, because the deafness is screaming from every corner of this experiment we call human. So few, thinking for so many. And fewer still doing their best to think the right things so this lost family has some honest direction.
Stand around like a city worker. Beating a dead horse and yelling words that won’t stick to anything worthwhile. Go shopping for some vocal Velcro, return to the soapbox and try again. In any endeavour, repetition is the key to success. Don’t quit until you’ve won. Or until your horse is hoarse. Beating the dead hoarse of course, it’s the famous Mr Dead. Another sonic synapse, booming my brains away.
What will they say, when you’ve gone away? He passed this way yesterday, but what he left behind is here to stay. Paint a picture with colours, words or sounds, and if this art conveys only honesty, the picture resounds. Light, language and music, dancing across mountain-tops, twirling through valleys and skipping across the sky. Reaching magic fingers into forever. And tickling the universe like the strings of an instrument.
Dead horses and drones called man, coming back to life when the horns call from the clouds. Lifting a veil from eyes too simple to see. Too frightened and lazy to save themselves by lifting a finger to save someone else. Pay the price for apathy when there are no more excuses casting dark shadows to hide behind. The truth behind the lies stands strong through the ages. Eviscerate evil and deliver the weak and foolish to a paradise they always had. Right under their feet. They failed to deserve it day after day as it slipped away, until the mercy of mortality laid their follies to rest.
They thought, therefore they were. The thoughts they thought were mostly for nought, so who gives a damn? What were they thinking when an imagined power left them powerless? And they gave the real stuff away to thieves who stole back to steal it until it was gone. They didn’t see because they chose not to see. And now all that is left is for the few with vision to save themselves. Journey into tomorrow with no baggage. And travel far.
Hope for the hopeless lives in less hoping. The lesson for them is lost in explaining the translation. So they remain hopelessly lost, floundering among excuses as they throw away the power to change.
Aaaahhh, the soapbox is only soap, in the shape of the box it came in, and now it’s rainin’. Step down for now and head somewhere higher and drier. Sing this sonic brain song for an audience with ears attached to minds that think. And argue with whatever ego that needs to be right. Over lyrics that mean the least.
