Weather Machines

an avalanche of regurgitated bile
buried, bodied, slammed into numbness
the storm that rages in quiet disguise
posing as naturally occurring turbulence

where then, does the snow not fall?

weather machines floating in the æther
manufacturing the days' violent disturbances
blowing hot air into swirling eyes
inflating impending disaster with self-importance

where then, shall the wind not blow?

wind in the sails of another inferno
spitting flame and ember in a fitful rage
the violence of hate does not discriminate
all who stand up shall be lain to ashes

where then, won't the fires burn?

a hoax arrived on eastern currents
dark clouds dripping with battery acid
bewildered faces with sloughed off skins
wonder what happened to their leaden legs

where then, is it safe to run?

behind thick and impenetrable doors
soiled sewers leading into dark caverns
there eternal darkness a repite for the mind
and the light within might yet resurface

to what end?

the machines keep marching on and on
crashing wave after wave of toxic sludge
upon the abandoned coasts of another future
a wasteland where no truth can ever thrive

truth to power.
the machines must bleed.