Of False Prose, America

abandon ship please

abort!  abort!

they don't 

want you here

anymore 

my pathetic mask

it screams!  it screams!

it is with deep sorrow

I must inform you,

my previous

self

This is the death of an old vision, an old vision of new hopes and dreams.  A sober vision of old reminiscences that deeply sicken the mind.  It is with a great sorrow that I must inform you: This vision is dead.  But fear so, for no vision will secede it, only the unimaginable terrors of a drunken way.  So lost, that this way will form its own.  Not one of chaos nor creation, but one of beauty and destruction.  A plight to refugees of the old way.  But what harm could the empty night sky inflict?  A night sky of little vision, little pain.  A night sky where pain is not a form of art, where conforming is, and uniqueness must hide in a dark nut-shell.  Waiting to be broken and rebirthed.