Alone, Unmourned & Unloved

[Sepia]

Of the living men, we hear naught but the dead stay up chattering all night and into the mornings before sleep also claims them as the living men go out into the world and learn its' secrets so they can live a life, prospering and doing everything they wanted and the way they first wanted it and life is filled with the dreams of the sixteen year old

Everything is dumbed down, it seems like offending someone of their ignorance is frowned upon and children are permitted to walk on their fists made of ham and there are no mysteries in the bank

The bank is the silent kid, closer to the middle than the last row, dressed nice but cheap and he raises his arm only when it is needed and speaks only when spoken to, a grey child by all accounts but here is not what he does but who he is because that's what defines him, his being  not his doing

Some of my friends say what is this world turning into and sometimes I say it's turning into what it always is, it's only the glamour that changes, only the faces that change while the hearts or lack of remain the same, that is all, that's how it works, pragma finding philo, raping him

There isn't a balance, there is nothing here except patterns, repetitions, change is always doing its' thing but so is tradition and while the name of it may transform, it still requires a cup and a wand

Here we hear the death-god's whisper, here we see the man behind the curtain, here we build the grand guignol where all our children will grow up in, all our plants, watered by us, grown by us, incubation lasting longer than previously stated, thin ice reaching like talons on black boards

Gods live in us but they are always remembered in the past, when truths change and turn to myths and as long as one mind believes nothing truly dies but in one hundred years, old knut, all will indeed be forgotten