Buried Beneath the Mountain

On the open market place of language, all words have a price.
Speech is not free – the more money you spend, the more of it you can buy.

Money is a demagogue that shouts down truth
And swears like a drunken sailor.
While nuance is swept under the carpet,
And reason is ridiculed like a naïve schoolgirl.

Fictitious “facts” touted by fraudulent fools,
Fill our minds as a mountain of currency manufactures consent.
Lead us not through a rose-colored world of unquestioned acquiescence
But deliver us from those who find comfort in being told what to do.

For thou art the power and the poison of minds and souls.

Words, sentences, paragraphs, and pages; spilling from the mouths
Of well-paid puppets, hollering hyperbolic nonsense,
As they shoot straight at the viscera and penetrate the core of rational thought.

More, more, more, the crowd exclaims!
Inflame us, Intoxicate us; make us forget our suicidal mindlessness
For we are asleep but we dare not dream
For our visions are Trojan horses implanted by the servants of money
And thus, we laughingly hurl headlong toward the coming catastrophe.

I’ve been saving my money so that I could purchase some pretty prose.
I need to hear words that cast out fear and make things clear,
Because I fear that we are lost and our prophets have been bought and sold
And thus, they lead us further away from truth;
While hope is buried beneath the mountain,
And there is no faith left to move it.


Robert Allan © 2009