media

Heavens thunder
muted,
sputniks descendants sound their battle cries,
arousing their armies to battle.
crushing regimes like castles made of sand.
 laying siege to the senses
Arming its minions with black, honey combed maces
bludgeoning answers out of your skull.
Shields to steal the whispers of wandering lips
and those fiendish 3rd eyes
forever flashing
blasting holes in the night
till it bleeds sunshine.
Truth maimed,
left to die
bleeding faintly into the gutter
linking ignorance of past,
to apathy of future
as villains are turned heroes,
and heroes turned villains.
The precious ally,
detested foe,
the invisible hand that shapes society's clay,
stacking its bricks
to build the school of inattention,
where we learn to look without seeing,
listen without hearing,
talk without speaking.