Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it. -George Santayana
The horror. The horror.
“I love the smell of napalm in the morning”
Mourning.
Rhymes are happy in a musical beat when off cadence in dissidence can’t complete a phrase of thoughts dead in the water – a fight up a river blood streams from slaughter. We made hell so heaven is viable – kill without thought – death need no trial.
It is sickening. It is sad. It is real. Vomit complacent, just orders, surreal. Reader, be loyal to ideals in the humanity being – white blood cells have to drop their global rape policing.
These rhymes are ugly as the topics they broadcast, over too fast.
Don’t look away, else fear be your master – to move forward in light is to understand disaster.