After the gold rush

We are holding each other tight
after the gold rush,
the colours of the art
will never fade,
will never become blur
in the whispering of the night.

The factory became a dead horse
on our tired shoulders,
another war to keep your treasures
in a few foul hands.

Smoking cars stumbling crazy
through the hall of a saviour,
every airplane crashes
in your hermetic thoughts
of fear and anger.
The crystal mountain grabbed the mask
from the Kings face,
behind his eyes a chemical substance
that will never blend
with the fruitful Garden
for a long while.

Several years
of heavy breath ahead.