raisedinkpress

They complain like thunder at all the drops of inconvenient rain. Forgetting life comes from the same.

We Travel the vast stretch of land we call our home.
And Leave the green sliver of coastal colonialism alone.

Recognise this land is great, vast, and wise.

It’s true people out here know how to survive.

We grow smarter for our adventure.
To see the expanse by land,

to travel each kilometer is to know each kilometer,

thousand upon thousand in the red sand, the scattered boulders, the sharp grass and the dwindling influence of the oppressor,

moreso we become the exploter and neglect and the hardness of truth.

We grow wise when we persevere.

We can see deserts bloom and wild fires consume.

Cave, tunnel, mine, uranium mine.

It’s not okay to disregard that which we cannot stand to see.

There is more beauty in this nothingness than in the concrete civility of the cruel, cruel city.

How hardened becomes a heart that is rendered from dusk till dawn

in the detritus of man’s broken dreams.

When the only god worshipped is currency and decency is not virture but weakness.

When kindness is a shock and levered against us.

The propaganda is cracking apart.

The people are dividing along lines of truth and denial,

cognitive dissonace and reality.

We flirt with oblivion because those who choke the power from us

would rather kill us all than relinquish their positions.

The lies are growing between us,

their roots can break any concrete ideas you may have.

Culture and language, indifference, respect, love, hope freedom, truth, fate…

Cannot pass thru walls,

these ghosts are all too real now.

Cannot block them out,

they wail from inside our walls.

Time wanders the halls of consciousness.

Heels clacking down the corridors in the mind.

Finger drum against the leather lounge.

A voice says you’re lucky to have a leather lounge.

Another voice is crying boredom at the telly.

Who is this.
What is this
This is this.
Tisk tisk tisk

Mind bottled by all these thoughts,
the crying
do this
do that,
not this,
not that.

Life is constant in its mewing,

when did we become so soft to its calling.

How hardened becomes a heart?

Ignoring the calling?