Week 1: sacrifice vs. Frank \\ Frank wins 11-1

[sacrifice]

Post Modern Collapse

Let us depart; the wisp's glance is difficult to withstand.
Yes, rather like thick boots in quicksand. The mist too,
it's dance: a swift, effortless march across the weathered expanse.
This land: stories reported of glory and death and of darkness.
Sheathing their blades made to slay demons with a Veteran's sharpness,
those brothers set foot beyond the fettered fencing to far-fetched
dreams and this Dream was no exception.
"Why haven't we departed," they grieved.
But I would not see them off until they'd hearken my peace:
The slow procession toward a city that suffered calamitous wounds.
Remember the fallen, the children's faces when the panic ensued.
Still it amazes, and strengthens resolve.
Some brazen, embracing the chilling result:
Why resort to killing them all? Only to leave us for life.
I tried to convey with frequency, like they couldn't see the deceit,
a kind of peaceful reminder, that there's reason for evil.
"You liar," they'd say. "Reason's inadequate."
Even when entire regions contract to exact resistance
with documented allegiances and class incentives,
still those elites with their masked linguistic attacks
condition the logic to paint their vision upon it."
I listened, and honest I wished they were wrong.
"Yes, just as we'd begin to drift off, to sleep we'd be
stripped of our lost reprieve by their sickening gongs,
the beating so persistent and strong."
I remember, that Christmas, the dark was immanent.
Still families lined up for the latest editions.
The Fall had faded so hastily,
in stasis with basic tradition by way of ancient religion.
They'd pay with their chips, an implanted matrix within databases of sinful
connections through synthetic 'timeways.'
Don't you see the irony here?
Manipulating space for a quick arrangement.
A light-wave vessel for credits to buy you your beer.
This is no dystopian fiction on stage,
this is merely the state of things in decay.
They'd innovate for the sake of vacuous innovation,
plugged into systems for passionless entertainment.
It's up to us on the path paved by Eliot's Wasteland.
With nothing to guide our footsteps save intelligence,
yet "they" stand on the side of cantankerous pride.
Such rancor! Such is hell for a sane man.
We should challenge this valiant Hate.
Damned if we lose balance unless we're proud of our grays...
Stranded on this mountain spreading fallacies,
pasted on the canvas of chaos with subjective boundaries.
Hosting Modernity on a Post for emergencies; we've all embarked
on this Odyssean journey for freedom as we fall apart.