Activity

[for charles forte]

time is hurtling,
rushing like a skeleton, to the edge of the stage.
as fissures appear,
like cracks of lightning, tearing into the waves.
reason is a cripple,
having been shunted, into a furious dialectic
a sort of statecraft,
where only war satiates the demon’s bray
fictitious principles,
dance from the end of puppet-like fingers
summoning rebellion,
adding to the death count of the age
color me a gray observer,
for I’ve seen enough to simply conclude
that charles forte was right
we are actually more being farmed,
than we are being played.