Control.

I'm in control,
The world in my hands,
And I control where and when I roll
I've got the final say on can's and can'ts.

But if they want laughter that's what they'll get,
Even if it's not a joke, the signs are there,
And I'll assign my voice with no regret,
Because even if I don't give a shit,
I'll never really know how much they care.

That's their secret, kept deep inside,
And I don't want to know, because thoughts of malice
Would be the first to show, and it will hide
Positive energy to fill up my ego chalice.

And when I drink it'll taste of ambrosia
Because I have the say on new tastes,
Listen now to the words that I tell ya
Or else these echoes will die in waste.

Until the day comes for me to expire,
This world is mine, I play for keeps,
And as I sip my ambrosia, until I retire
I'll claim as mine the rewards others reap.

So ante up, put a chip in the pot,
Stand up, pace, and sit back down,
For after I'm gone this can all rot,
Because by then, someone else will wear my crown.

Broken barrels.

In ten years I won't remember writing this. In fact, I'll probably forget about this post after I delete or stop maintaining this writing outlet. Or, perhaps by classifying this post as already forgotten I have superseded the memory, such that I will associate this post with memory loss. If that were the case, then perhaps this will be the last memory I keep.

But for right now, I'm in the moment. My heart is beating, I can time my keystrokes according to the blood in my veins, and I can exist as a perfectly oiled machine. However, as time passes I am already starting to forget the feeling that I had at the beginning of this post. I sat down with purpose and plodded around the web-space for a while until the only thought on my mind was emulators and finding where I put my Logitech controller.

And now it's a new moment, and the sounds in my ears are being replaced by newer, crisper noises that slide through the air, already milliseconds old by the time I am able to register them. And thus, whenever living in the moment, remember that said moment has already occurred. There is no planning, there is no anticipation, it's all reflex. I can't fabricate any algorithm to match my day, because every breath goes down a bit differently, and it can't all be predicted.

So there is reaction, as opposed to action, because surely nothing is done of nothing, and it must come from something. And as such, perhaps all we are living is one giant chain reaction. I wake in the day to find myself hungry, so I must work for my food. But before I can earn my way, I must be in contact with a culture and hold a job. And in order for me to hold that job I must have transportation, for which I must accrue insurance payments and, ultimately, a place to call home.

There is no more wandering, there is no more seeing the world for what it is. All people believe things because they either fear them to be true, or they hope that they are true, and, perhaps, one could argue because they have been convinced or shown that it is true. So the wool is pulled over our eyes, either by the hand of another or of our own volition, to see the world through a filter. And belief is just that, the filter through which all of existence passes in our recognition of it. Belief effects our everyday reactions, perceiving situations from another point of view, and only perceiving them, and makes us shape the way that the day moves.

So if I believe that I won't remember this piece of writing, how does that alter the time-stream? My actions henceforth shall reflect one with no knowledge of this post, but having written it and believing in the contents of it, reacting as if I had read it. But I haven't read it, and I won't know if I wrote it, so even though I am in full agreement with this post at this moment, reacting the the music in my room and the chemical reactions and neuro-messages within my body, maybe someday I'll react differently.

Kings.

What lives on this earth shall surely turn,
Live and love before it's sent to burn,
By it's own hand or that of it's kin,
For only the end meets those who begin.

In this ember, this shard of dying fire,
Lies the power of men and their dying empire,
For which they send their young to the grave.
And the world is torn, her children in scorn,
All fighting for something different to save,
Or for an ideal that is not yet born.

Ancient kings protected their rings
And jewels under constructs of stone.
And when the trap sings,
Even the bravest of kings
Knows now is his time to atone.
For as they rest in these rooms, these tombs,
And rot slowly, wrapped in cloth,
A new presence looms in their descendants' wombs,
To rid us all of this freezing sloth.

What's true of sands, dunes on the lands,
Is that they can kill you twice.
And despite your plans, it's in the sun's hands,
Whether you're done in by fire or ice.
It's arid and dry, not a cloud in the sky,
Nor a drop to quench your life's thirst,
But the heat passes by, as the sun starts to die,
It's a wonder whether you'll find haven or the grave,
Or if the grave will find you first.

Some think that under an undying love,
They will be guided to heaven above,
While others must cross the Styx.
But while the rivergoers sing,
And praise their own king,
The guided ones are up to their old tricks.

For not every king needs a crown to rule,
And even fewer need only a book,
But in the end it's only the fool,
Who believes the light with hardly a first look.

But the kings with crowns and courts
Do better for their serfs and slaves,
Than for a hidden king, of sorts,
Who holds every answer you crave.

Because the kings of men give the common their food,
And protect their borders from the vicious and crude,
But the king of kings isn't here in the dunes,
He's only found in subtexts and runes,
So much for his care, compassion and love,
When he's watching you suffer, doing nothing above.
And for now, in this world, you are alone,
Your god isn't here, so kneel, worship,
And kiss my golden throne.

The End of the Endless.

If I woke up tomorrow upon an open plain,
I'd be content with nought to lose,
And the rest of the world to gain.

And if this life is all there is,
Then I could die to spite you,
Just to give a meaning to all this.

But if your books are right,
Then I'd be trapped forever,
In the land of fire and endless night.

Or if you were to die in my stead,
I still wouldn't keep the company
Of cannibals on broken bread.

Because these days it seems,
Men of both extremes,
Seek to rip the world apart,
By it's jagged seams.

In the end, it's not that it matters,
The moments in time you cling to,
The tatters,
Of memories, long lost and tucked away,
To keep them safe and sound,
For when you rest underground,
Or maybe to keep them safe from you.

Because we never leave them be,
Embellishment grows rampant,
Happiness rarely resides in what was,
But what you make it.

And when all's said and done,
I hope that this life is all that there is,
Because there's no pleasure in life
Quite like a long rest at the end of the day.

A long.
Well deserved.

Rest...