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Means Towards the End

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Staring out the window,
the grey figure spans the sky,
appearing sinister and thwarting,
like a remote talking void,
peering down in all his glory,
and laughing.

He controls us, his puppets,
programming us with television,
fast food and baseball.
Unable to think, or speak intelligence,
for shadows hover over street corners,
linger behind us on our way home,
and sleep with us in the night.

The product of control,
the product of martial law,
the means towards the end of days.





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