The Actuator
Trapped in a chamber filled with sounds
of an angry lion's uproarious deafening din without harmonies
Without the harmonies of the human story
I have fled to sanctuary
Fleeing from a grassless desolation
Hidden in a concrete desert of knowledge
Where bare and naked truths dance
In passionless circles around our connectedness
A collective of clangor and clatter
Of screeching wheels and cogs that whine
In a lamenting whirr of chaotic terror
These God's of the actuality of corrosive composition
Directing our eons of feeling to what benefits progress
To the crushing coldness of a bleak and lifeless body
Then say we!
“What beauty do you speak of without passion?"
The perfect nightmare of neon
Seen through the glass eye of a computer
blinks from the components of unhuman cores
Where paint melts like dripping violets
From the wound of shattered silence it speaks
“All unnecessary creativity is irrelevant and meaningless
so arts shall perish from the inside of a machine"
Then say we!
"Colors are from the heart, music is from the soul and words touch are being human!"
But for now the piggish void consumes
The words, the brush stroke
The hand covered with clay
The fingers striking marble
Weaving the textures of the world
While the music played on
So not a single dream is heard!
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