Thy will, will be done.
The screens flare, a brief flash of light plumes as it comes into being, a child reared up towards the sun, a sacrifice of the savior, an echo of luminescence spliced into frame, feed solemnly through the projections of an innocent mind.
A seemingly independent entity so shrouded in ancient alchemy,
guided, molded into present form, if only by mere consequence of sound.
A cultural cacophony regulates the octaves, some forever sustained,
while others reverberate freely upon the open stage.
The house of the father, is most alive when silent.
A rotating mass of replicants, running ahead of themselves in circles, idols built up high upon the wall, each assigned with such a task, all set to control the heart of the son.
The cannon fodder plunged down deep into the rifling barrel, burning the temples, fueling the fires that burn against our own desires, this hair pin trigger is set to collide.
This machine of human error will it expire before the flint sparks the powdered keg of this earth, setting ablaze so much work within a few fragile hours of our appearance, the candle flicker’s in the wind.
The will to begin or the will to end, evolution is pacing quietly in the waiting room, hoping to bring us back to life.
If the heart’s shall faultier, then the field’s shall weep for the rains to come, strangled by the heat of the mid-days sun.
A brief flash of light and then there was none.
– Josh Fleming