The God of the machine waits in the essence of the day, waiting for a special new way. It stands all so tall, blocking out the sun to make way for the acid rain fires. It's open stock of seemingly useless propaganda, and with a pop-up and a flash, the night makes it's own way through the gates. The empty walkways, the closed off streets, It must be a sign of the things to come. Brimmed hats can hide your face, and suttle remarks can conceal your fate, but only to us, for it is the god. Sinners and pures will be judged all the same, till the day becomes new the innocent shalt rest. The human faults and cracks show a light of error that shall strike us from our jeweled thrones. The crys will carry from town to village. It is earthly nature to not sit still. We can run and we can hide, but not from it-not from what we create. From New Jersey to Kuwait and all the way to the Bering Strait, it will show us truth-and on it's own make a new.
(Something I wrote over 2 and 1/2 years ago. I published it on another blog of mine called "Latemourningj")
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