pressure suit

all the world is wreathed in it
a seething
writhing discontent
shackles and fanatical manacles
seizing a soul disturbed
by societies perverted and perverse
acceleration in reverse
all the world
has heard the song
we know the words
the chorus the verse
and no one shouting promises
ever amounts to their worth in the politics
of an imploding universe
there are those
who throw off the cloak
the pressure suit
they refuse
to acquiesce to the path of cheap success
they are the mystics gathering
in the desert
silent and persistent
on the same dry earth
john the baptist walked
gathering the dead wood
he used to stoke the fires of repentance


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