Comatose

Praxis is the touchtone of our thought.

Minds inform our movement making music with our actions - we are all musicians; dancing to the beat of a thousand different drums - combined in tribal counterpoint - until the chaos is so loud it can no longer be heard, only felt - and these words are not spoken, but they are yelled.

All of your words have fallen to the ground.

You have sold yourself to vanity.

I see your masks, falsehood seeps from you.

But I don't believe a single tale from you.

You scream of destruction and of anarchy.

You writhe in the pain of a love once lost.

But I don't buy a word, not one word.

You sell what's true of yourself (for) vain silver.

Every last drop of your blood runs cold; (you) stale cadaver.

When did your heart last beat (you) whitewashed corpses?

Your pulse has faded - your face so pale (you) stale cadaver.

If this is oppression, your heart should be beating.

If you are a warrior, your foe should be bleeding.

If this really hurts you, I should find you weeping.

I've only just met you yet, I find that your comatose conviction means nothing to me.

Choke on your glory.

I won't let you suffocate what now lives.

Art is the depth of our essence, it cannot be void of truth.

The truth of your expression has withered - your wick has become cold.

You cannot buy what's real.

You cannot buy the truth.