Aeon of lies,
Slander runs rampant,
The fruits of its labor are gained,
Blinded by the falsities of both,
Women and Men,
Left and Right,
Free and Slaved,
The lie wins the day,
Humanity is never the victor,
Nothing changes,
Just a new day for a new way,
To LIE.
The only hope is a realization,
The truth is never told,
It is sought,
Awaken dreamers,
Hear the call,
Before,
The curtain falls,
On us all.
Time for the Aeon of Realization,
is in your hands.
On the tip of the mind,
Something exists there,
Can I get it to come out and play?
What must I do,
To cajole it out of its hiding spot,
Wedged in so deep,
Never budging from its haunt,
Crashing, banging, clashing, clanging,
Nothing seems to work,
What recourse is left,
But to shirk,
Around its blindside,
Push it until,
It works,
And off the tip it will come,
To deliver what I need to get,
Things done.
An evasive little bugger exists there in my mind, a title for a project that would serve much better than edanstebbins.net or futuroreal.net, the latter quickly becoming synonymous with failure, procrastination, frustration, and regurgitation. Not the fault of the title so much as a fault of things just don’t seem to be connecting at all for it. The days are numbered for it, and I fear it shall soon meet its end. Not the writing idea, but the website… the podcast might retain its name but the network idea has proven to be pointless. Too much to do with only few on hand to do it.
A rope of thorns at the top,
A place where blood does not stop,
In the pale moonlight,
A dance commences,
Stamping ground further down,
Swaying back and forth,
Beneath the silent watch,
Of tall guardians,
Never reaching the other side,
For one cannot scale,
A rope of thorns at top.
