A last vestige before electricity disappears

America in denial, as the world laughs at it, is angry at it, is screaming “are you crazy!?”  The nation borrows money to no end, with more of the same fodder for entertainment.  Ignorance is bliss.

So much of this has been said in The World Is Too Much with Us, a sonnet by William Wordsworth, where too many are too attached to their own world to be sufficiently aware of nature as a whole.

Even our reader sees status-quo overcoming the message.  It defies all sense, so does this make the dream all so vivid — the contradiction.

A recurring dream come to life, beget all dreams.  A depiction of externality through systems of immunity and correction, a side effect of a natural high.  Neither God nor antichrist are external in form.

I am guilty of the charge too, writing unheard calls.  Little repentance do I seek; I have made, and reflect upon ills of man.  This monster made then antagonizes its host without knowledge of origin.

The damage is done through an ill spirit that cannot be taken back, as it is dissolved into the audience.  The audience is put to sleep — I am indeed a sad nap.

‘Pejorative’ mentioned for the Ugly American, the listeners turn their head in protest, not hearing their warning.  Then comes the hardship of revision, a hardship to relay what is already understood.

It be said of the “irritating” messenger to modify his signal, and thus ruin the necessary single-speak, as the charlatan cites his double-speak.  One score a year make one cycle of denial.

Not of worldliness nor greed nor sunder, there be no way around the best that be; a frame in time makes no heeded words but one’s own.  A truth to be told only by oneself, the only truth there is.

No more words for the wake, that for those that have perished still remain dead.  No more words for the sake, the argument is killed once more.  The willingness ceases at this point, an underrated art of volition is to pause.

The art, or lack thereof rests, for what those virtually dead on the inside want.

Proverbs forgotten, and the verse misunderstood.  A misuse indicates yet another pause for correction.  I am still here, still aimless.

“Then why are you here?” asks the proprietor, “Why would you be here if it is to be a wasteland too soon?”

“Why would I be anywhere?” responds the maker, who lacks the equity to his own ability to say.  “Can’t I be somewhere, and voice myself too!?”

With discipline lost, so goes the sense.  The art becomes lost.

“Why, Why, WHY!?”  A deafening silence underlines the last cry of humanity.

All ways of electromagnetic disruption come, in an all-so common time of December, the Winter Solstice.  Power lost then for aimless power now.

At the end of one road, the messenger has failed, with no one to blame the messenger.  Their own ruination silences their own internal hell on the surface; it silences their ability to lie to themselves.

What trust is there, when the scream of undoing falls on deaf ears?  What is to be seen in a society that values dishonesty for the meager joke, with its measure excused as a means of survival.

No survival to be seen at the end of this road, as life goes on without humanity.  With history left unrecorded, there is no time to be spoken of, hence the end of time.

Revealed is the greatest of egos.  Even still, sadly, the message is misunderstood.