Fire behind the flower

Analysing the substance
created for the consumer
lost in a dreamland
of addiction,
subsidizing old fossils
on the peacock throne
to keep a status quo of greed
in the mirror of
religion.


Her voice went through the soul
of angels, every sound a heartbreak
the next walk through the woods
was clear enough to loose
every pride, the roof
was shaking underneath
my hollow breathing
of dark and light.


A fanatic fantasy
became fashionable education,
the hypocrites in need
for a lot of words
contradictive interpretations
to justify their intentions
for a certain beginning
or a constructed end.


The editor is selling
an inflammable story
to the infantile wanderer,
every fool is getting
behind the wires of the machine,
they can’t stop now
screaming loud
in digital credentials
to the neglected streets
of our ancestors.


The sound bites bouncing
back to our anxious hearts
in magnetic illusions.
( gold diggers dancing on our graves)
Don’t be too sure,
death is just a theory...