[asylum]

Our position isn’t a gift humans received,
it’s built on the back of everything we’ve achieved.
Written in rock, in monuments and buildings of granite,
inscriptions listing lasting depictions, visions from hell.
Perhaps even one’s from which our existence was built,
they laugh as we bend to their will,
while their statues patiently understand.
Watching our every move, “Don’t test me dude,”
the Ten Commandments, bringing back the best of grooves.
Scratch out the infestation with vermin scratching tooth and nail,
set the recorded pattern repeating in different soothing scales.
The rat race moves slowly through drifting ages,
lets the basic decree stay and repeat.
Layers of our different stages lay buried deep,
baring the weight of all the lakes and beaches,
from the highest peaks,
to the deepest seeps found beneath it.
Life begins and repeats,
forges a spade to dig the way and succeeds in the end,
it’s the way you carve the beast that marks the meaning of friends.
When the laymen rise against you with bits of holy stones in their hands,
they misuse undisclosed quotations most don’t even understand.
Suffocating by this fate isn’t done without a punctured lung,
our worlds being torn to pieces by hoards that lunge forward,
with dangerous steps and swords for tongues,
hungering to witness the final moment of our plunge.
Hoard the crumbs after it's passing and prepare for the onslaught,
explore every rung of the ladder you climb before the weights dropped.
Tightening the hangman’s noose.
He's watching the veins in your eyes pop.
As a silhouette sits on the side of Stonehenge,
it's past perception of time stops.