A Warning for the People of Babel

The effort’s nearly gone to waste. Fools made hierophants kings and builders to be breakers. They “first-night”-ed your livelihood and taxed your time on earth. They thought they were building monuments to their gods, but failed to realize their worship was hollow, all good gone to the warship on the morrow. Boiled like frogs between three walls and a teleprompter. Don’t leave the box. The fourth’s a fake. Don’t leave the box. You have to make a break to make or break. Don’t leave the fucking box.

Kill me if you will, but I won’t be standing in Prometheus’s shadow when the tower falls. I’d pray for you, but my god would likely strike us all. I get nervous when I hear the thunder call. For you, that is. I made my peace. I won’t be crying when the tower falls. If only empires didn’t have crash landings. When the tower falls, will you still be standing? Or will you cower, scream, and babble your lies about a sinking ship’s untimely demise? Death will claim you. Be it now or later. Life won’t save you from the great un-maker. All your trinkets, all your schemes. Mice, yet not men, know what it means. Time passes like the window with only a glimpse of good fortune. Gold may shine, but bills don’t build a secure and stable mind. You will understand, if you’re still around, that nothing is untouchable to the fury and the sound. Good luck my friends, I’d rather not see you laid in the ground. Remember for the end, all things that live, die.


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