As a child I moved through life joyfully.
Days and weeks bled into months and years.
Not a care in the world as we played and laughed.
Games and toys, imagined lands and timeless sands.
Curiosity and intrigue, the realms of the impossible opened.
Create and crave, inspire and desire, the impossible now possible.
Then, almost over night, it stopped.
Like a switch had been flipped.
The darkness in the daylight.
The car, the plane, the horse, the ball.
All the toys broken and misinformed.
In truth they had been reformed, reborn.
Now, as a man I watch as people trudge through life.
Blind in faith, blind in mind, senseless, abandoned to their own senseless articulation.
Farm animals, vacant, putrid and petrified to their core.
A lifetime of woe and foreboding, shackled by those who control.
Puppet Masters, of commerce and currency.
Deviant distraction and manipulation.
Silent, secret, vile creatures that haunt their own soul.
So they make and play, with all their toys, you and I, broken and living to be destroyed.
Mathew James Ford 