A Spirit Shows me the Year

The window opens to a ledge.

There is a great darkness coming.
The betrayers of lineage.
Their savior

walking across salted sand.
Matthew
takes the book of his Father.
Striking out at his enemies
with times spell of covenant
he has declared himself a god.

The piper of Greenwich
life elaborated on a wire message
and the party
celebrating civilization plays on.

The world turning on
its axle is going mad
while the man behind the bank
alienates himself from his
his wife’s love
for his own purpose.

The establishment,
through computer programming and
surveillance satellites,
have developed a system
to hand out their gifts
of honor. They are extracting
the essences of our individuality,
giving us our materialistic and
sexual desires through what is
called simulated cyber stimulation.

The military forces here
are privately funded assignees
who have allowed the power
elite to take control of
all communication networks.

The future has taken away our freedom.

Our genes have become weaker due
to the hormones implemented into our
food. Reproduction takes place with
hybrid cultivated eggs. Mans sperm,
has become a sterile fluid,
pumped into creation from a tube.

The world we know in the year 2332, is dying.

by Joseph Mayo Wristen

An Epithet for the Dead Poet

The voice of a dead poet
calling out from his grave
asking me to follow his visions.
Once a spirit he is now just
one of the many souls
who have remained here to
be with the living.
His passionate thoughts.
His causes.
The moment in his life when he failed
to realize who he was.
His fears preventing him from
finding his place in the afterworld.
the dead poet has awakened from his death.

The beating that comes from his heart.
The pounding of the drums.
The tribes of commerce
who call out to his dream.
They recite his name in prayer,
looking to find the means to combat
the oppressors of their different societies.

I dance to his testimonial
in the heat of the night.
I dance to his living death.

No,
he was not a Saint
and some say that he was
not even a considerate man.
But he was a concerned individual
one who was aware
of what was happening
around him,and what the world
would be like if humanity did
not take care of the land.

The beating of his heart.

I can hear his cries of
suffering.His words of pain.
He is asking us to fight
to take arms against
the establishment of social
injustices.To take down the walls
of religious prejudices.
The words of his revolution
playing on vinyl spy recording.

His verses ingrained in the minds
of those who are out there
looking for Nature’s truth.
He is the messenger
of a concerned sect.
His death, the signaling of
the second coming.

The figure of the dead poet,
a voice of enlightenment,
a symbol of man
standing against ideal empires.

The full moon casting a spell
over our consciousness.
The poet’s ghost dancing under the stars
his soul looking to be freed.
The blood bleeding from his heart
his visions staining my mind.

The beating of the drums.
His poetry tapping the injustices
of a free enterprise.
He is crying out to us.
Shouting out to us from his grave.
Burn it down. Burn it.

Burn it to the ground.

The dead poet has returned and
there is no way I can escape his voice.
He has taken me to his grave
shown me the emptiness of the next world.
Shared with me the plans of the deceiver.
He has witnessed the repeating death
traitors of God receive when found gulity.
He has returned to show us the way
of our salvation.
He is here right now. He is inside my mind.

Realities madness taking me beyond reasoning.

by Joseph Mayo Wristen