Cyborg Salvation

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
...As we march forward into progress.

Submitted: January 12, 2009

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 12, 2009



Systematic desensitization

shattering… fragmenting mental stations.

Needles turning… slow, into frontal lobes

piercing…suck and insert old and new globes.

Electric, magnetic bits of freedom

initiating converts into kingdoms.

Synthetic insertions of assertions

claims of technological progressions.

As we move forward, water turns to stone

as we move forward the heart turns to bone.

For once the soul did have red love of gold

now just, sounds of echoes in haunted coves.

Seeding the masses with pleasure and pain

sado-masochistic addictions reign.

The lure and bait is a soulless system

feeding your lowsoul with the forbidden.

Lost in the skies of virtual living

Artifiicial happiness... the giving.

Happy tablets ingested...daily meats

Mechanisitic signals then choke and cheat.

So then mainfests an epoch of fear

created just for you and yours my dears.

Whilst states of trepidation plague your ears
exploited you are, in interiors.

Machines revolutionizing thinking

… capturing human will, every inkling.

Masses lining streets of paranoia

injected in conscience… mass hysteria.

Society’s love, a deceived living

life taken away… souls then for giving.

… Just thoughts to share in this hour of dare

obscurantist I’m called- caveman with stares.

Just want to be left alone… at home

no thief I am, if you knew me you’d know.

Fear or bliss bred to scar and bleed… then heal

'Evolution’ to flocks, whose fate be sealed.

Submission is the preached requirement...

my tongue vexxed with sarcasm's amusement.

'If you have nothing to hide,' then accept

... give life over for freedom... connect.

Engineered creatures with few perceiving

dangers of electric marks; receiving.

An orchestra led by Pied Piper's cry

my rejection... of liars... in places high.

Now are your thoughts really from your heart

... or grafted in like cement on the grass?

Is your sense owned by elites and their clones

... or you yourself true to a righteous throne?

As we move forward, no more children's song

as we move forward roses turns to thorns.

For once the soul did have red love of gold

now, just sounds of echoes... in haunted coves.

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