Just because someone does not have a voice
Doesn’t mean they have anything to say.
Certainly many who do, don’t.
English is often fun,
often bitter and ugly and warped/warping.
It is a tool like a hoe,
Orwell, our seer, saw what was coming, the anesthetics injected into the patient prior to lopping off words as if THEY were a cancer when the answer is worse, that to some of us the rest of us are a curse, a murder of crows, an ignorant mass those with a woke brain must know need to be herded like cattle towards where they deem is best. Pay no attention to the moos of distress. They are sad, certainly, but the certainty is all that matters. So what if all society goes to tatters, what matters is that that will all be in the past. What’s coming is a freedom that lasts. A freedom that survives until we evolve out of our humanity to become something celestial but not like THAT, no siree, there isn’t a God, we’ll be scientifically, terrifically free.
“We” might have six arms, no legs, a head the size of a tree.
“We” might breathe water deep under the sea.
“We” might have eyes that can put a felines to shame
or forget what is a he or a she but
We’ve got a great plan, what you want doesn’t matter.
Does a ship care one whit what its barnacles want?
But when the ocean we float in is crystalline clear
And there is no need for hunger or yearning or fear
There won’t be barnacles with their annoying quirks, twerks and Jesus,
It will be a gleaming hull in a sunshiny bright day.
I am not God (HA!) but here above in my bubble
Of old age, dull rage, a philosophical Hubble,
I look down (pun intended like most of them are)
Upon those who would lead us beyond who we’ve been.
And see what they can’t see thru their cobalt colored glasses,
Unable to see the world and its cacophonous masses.
Yes, we are barnacles under this metaphorical boat
But SURPRISE! Without us this humanity thing will not float.
Our imperfections are its structure from figurehead to till
Because of that crusty, rusty thing called free will.
So we tack and we turn between two magnetic shores,
On one side (so green!) the call of nature, its seasonal rhythms and terrible beauty
Where all is of genes and no ponderous duty.
On the other a pure plain of warm sand and hard rock
Where the one sided dice of science is all that you’ve got.
I’ve no idea where this long ship is heading
Or even if we will be there when it goes where it goes.
All I know is what matters is that we keep the thing going
Though we fight every fathom
And sometimes feed the crew souls.
It just doesn’t matter as long the boat doesn’t sink.
We will get somewhere, somewhere better I think.