The March Against The Establishment

There is a way, 
they used to say 
as they made us march ahead
and risk our lives for them.

Groups on groups, 
led to the ground,
packs of cigarettes thrown around, 
and terror of the sound:
of people shouting and crying about,
but mere indistinct chatter
here at home,
where all sound and smoke blurs into one.

In the months of war, 
God walked off, 
and ascended from the clouds
to a much higher ground,
forgoing again, when duty called, 
indulging in all things
that were advised against, 
and are told that certain refrains keep us sane.

And the one sin of man:
to sight out all escapes
and passage of ways through time
and wander about the unsought path,
here people are found hung all around,
debt weight their chests and arms, 
others with a tinge of pain, from reclusion and refrain,
and calamities of all sorts.
Some infants, some of age, 
some that awaited promises that were made, 
some with a hundred letters to their chest,
some with a somber, chilling death.
All of them nailed into or hung to their tree, 
with their flowers all around,
a sun that never set—always over the head,
seldom clouds, seldom shade,
seldom cold, but never rain.
Nothing to tear their flesh,
no bones for the vultures at rest,
no guards, no theft,
the trail went on
until a suitable tree was met, 
and then it consumed all remaining life,
and embraced them, until whatever end.

The nobles ostracised all those that went on this trail, 
if returned, they were jailed,
then made to starve to death,
never finding the tree that was meant, 
and the rats nibbled at their flesh,
until their bones were thrown to the dogs in the lawn, 
that could’ve lived off the pigs at rest,
yet due to the hives,
all lives are lost, all lives are lost,
all lives are lost…

There is a way,
there always has been
an eye peeks from a hole in the seam,
and once apathy is left aside,
this is the spirit of revolt.
This is when we aim back at the lords
and shoot, and claim the estate, 
and foster a state safe for all that stay
in peace, amongst all, or in seclusion for a month—
this is how art was made.

Now there ought to be fewer promises undelivered,
when one walks further along the path, 
fewer people with no letters of love,
and discolouration, and wilted flowers.
The sun is still overhead, 
the plague was always amongst us,
as we looked into the sky for rain.