Am I losing my touch?
Hope Conforms Eternal.
Its what we've always wanted,
omnipotence without working memory.
Held up in opulent mausoleums and billboard slogans,
burned down in sound-proof cathedrals.
Our very own hole to heaven,
lined with opium and discordant hymms.
We'll poke our heads up through the concrete clouds,
to be greeted by wardens with wings.
We'll never burn this way,
without sins for oil.
We'll be killed in our works,
and buried in our broadcasts.
The original dead letter office,
accompanied by fire and dancers.
Pentagrams as paperweights, undoing the wind's work,
holding dossiers and death sentences.
We'll never burn this way,
without sins for oil.
We'll be killed in our works,
and buried in our broadcasts.
