Every Move you Make Every breath you Take

 

Every Move You make Every Breath you take

The air in the country is changing. It is a hard thing to see, but you feel it in the way people move and the way they stay quiet. It is the feeling of a hunt where everyone is the prey.

First, there is the watching. They call it surveillance. It is in the glass in your hand and the glass on the buildings. The telescreens do not blink. They watch you eat and they watch you sleep and they watch you work. It is a clean kind of watching, efficient and cold. There are microphones in the places where people used to talk. Now, they do not talk. They look at the ground and they keep their hands in their pockets.

Then there is the policing of the mind. The Thinkpol do not always need to break down your door. They are already inside. You think a thought that is not the right thought—a thoughtcrime—and you feel the fear. It is a cold fear that sits in the stomach. You learn to kill the thought before it breathes. You do it because you want to live. It is a hollow way to live, but it is a way.

They take the words and they shave them down. They call it Newspeak. It is a language made to make the world small. If there are no words for freedom, then no man can be free. You learn Doublethink. You hold two ideas that are not the same and you tell yourself they are the same. It is a trick of the mind. It is a way to stay safe when the regime is heavy.

The trend is there, growing like weeds in a field no one cares for. It is a fascist thing, and it is very quiet.

Winter Solstice

 

The Winter Solstice 

The moonlight strikes deep in the heart of the frost,

Where the hours are long, and the light feels lost.

The year reaches down to its darkest point,

Tracing the edge of a jagged, cold line.

But even the dark must bow to the dawn,

A limit is reached, and a veil is withdrawn.

For darkness, though vast, has a point where it wanes,

A rope that snaps for the morning’s own sake.

Just as the orbit returns to the flame,

Your spirit remembers its ancient name.

The resilience you thought had been buried in snow,

Is waiting for rhythm, for permission to glow.

You survived the season that tried to turn stone,

The ice in the marrow, the chill in the bone.

Now watch as the night  begins to give way,

Softening fast in the light of the day.

You are not the shadow; you are what is true.

Welcoming the beginning of a year born anew 

should of seen the signs

 

The Dictator's Treadmill

The belt spins fast beneath the feet,

no pause for breath, no safe retreat.

To step aside means iron bars,

A concrete room beneath the stars.

So what price is paid to hold the floor?

He breaks the law to write some more

. He’ll burn the world to keep the pace

and die running in the exact same place.

Somebody opened Pandora''s box

 There is something called the Dictator's Treadmill: once you get on, you can’t get off, because falling off means ending up in jail. What options does the leader have, and what is he/she willing to do not to fall off?

Give me that old time religion

 On a rising wind

Distant drumming begins

listen and take heed

You mortal men

Ancient druids whisper low,

"Earth's rhythms, you do not know.

Polluting streams and burning skies,

Your greed destroys, with reckless sighs.

The ancient oaks, they stand and weep,

Their whispers echo in endless sleep.

The winds howl loud, a mournful sigh,

As humans ravage, with a blinded eye.

Awaken, mortals, to nature's plea,

Lest the earth, in ruin, be.

The balance shifts, the future's told,

In harmony with nature, you'll unfold."

Snow plows

 Bastards

I awake in the night

to the sounds of the snowplows

blocking my driveway.

I imagine their maniacal

laughter as they pull away

witchcraft