The bus is full of zombies
Looking at me, for food
All of us, man made monsters
Herded to work.
We live
And we pretend
Each one a tool
To be used
And controlled.
Looked upon as inferior
Because it is easy to forget
That only the tiniest of differences
Separates them
From us.
I fell through a crack
And there was nothing
For me to grab
Hitting the bottom hard
Without a net.
But in surviving
I could see it all
And once you know
You can never forget.
In everything
There is an order
And in every bureaucracy
There are echelons
Of control.
A byzantine web
Of left and right
With no one person
Tying it together.
A cog in a machine
Each one making a part
Eyes to the task
And blind in the dark.
Bent over our desk
To produce what others ask
Making a monster
Too big to fail.
Victims of an ambition
Without morals
Or conscience
More than capable
Of unspeakable horror.
Behind the last curtain
Bigger things transpire
Where the closeted elite meet
To obfuscate and conspire.
Protected and paid
If they are willing to play
To do what they are told
Each and every day.
Empty and dead
The monsters control the man
Inching toward oblivion
For a title in the club.
Each one protecting the other
In phalanx of loyalty
Pledging fealty to Satan
And contempt for God.
But some loved God enough
That they became as children
Plucked out by faith
Wandering, lost,
Separated, and found.
Today they make plans
But it was never about
A single man
Far more about the children
Hated, and abused.
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