‘Humane…’

Numbers are hanging on the wall

The mighty preachers have lost the war

The bizarre breeze has turned its way

Round the clock from six to eight

Boxes of charged energetic waves

Consume their vision at an instant gaze

Minds working from day till night

Have lost their intuitive sights

Cremated memories of the past

Rise from the ashes to claim their parts

Memoirs of the present race

Commemorate writings of ancient days

‘Click the button to make a sound’

The lunatic is half-way underground

A passageway to ‘crimson grass’

Don’t forget to ‘trade’ along the path

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One thought on “‘Humane…’

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