The stars don’t twinkle in the night,
Disturbed by smokestacks slowly burning.
The terror hides itself from sight,
Forgotten by machinic yearning.
Devour, consume, create, destroy.
Process, excrete, dictate, employ.
Where production is concerned,
Things become replaced, not earned.
One pattern without skill repeated,
Without a past or master built.
The Shibboleth continues serving,
Unfeeling, careless of its guilt.
Discarded bones are turned to litter.
Exhausted marrow becomes glue.
The glutton firmly remains seated
Upon the boney throne receives its due.
Feed its benevolent afflictions,
Disease of Kings and Midas Touch,
Embrace the firmest of convictions,
And choose who you will turn to mulch.
The Shibboleth will do the taking,
Will clothe and cook and feed you too.
Why think of what creature you’re making?
Why ask the depths below what’s true?
Just live and die, for pithy slogans,
If you can struggle to that end.
For most who carry on their bleating,
Can’t even think to play pretend.
Until of course the tides are rising,
And paranoia takes its course,
A feast prepared, children are crying.
The gears will grind apart the corpse.
The metal teeth will sow the terror.
Long buried on the other side.
And those it crushed will see the error.
And it will be too late of course.
All that was pointless ends in nothing,
No better than a locust swarm
Consuming without end in sight,
The light of Reason brings eternal night.
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