Its me against the Army of Failure, the Army of Fear
We dance a pirouette of dogma, as we highlight our minds
a soliloquy of pride. One spot light, an broad empty stage
a staggering stutter, speaking in tongues. A hurricane of thought
that floods the time.
We chastise the ocean, angry at the waves, and our sand castle illusion
is our solitary confinement of praise.
A one man play by Roger Guenveur Smith
a sarcastic chuckle mimicked by our out of body dissection.
No Resurrection
A hunger for political dissonance, as we stomach the sick.
it's curtains i tell you.
Curtains.
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