Unleash the power, unfurl a fury, and give in to unbridled glory. Roll away the stone as the home fires burn. Call out the National Guard. So much for protest. Make way for Jesus and his angel army's triumphant return. It’s never too late for a hostile takeover. What’s a poor mother to do? They take liberty over death. Taking liberties with you. Cry baby doll tears; pray for the lonely children. Then again, it’s never a fun time for civil unrest. The revolution never got televised 24/7. All God's children, whether good or bad, will not go to heaven or hell. All the files are permanently corrupted. Collateral damage is par for the course. Down to the last few great patriots of failed regimes waving flags to surrender. It is always Miller time around here.
The descendants of wealth, old money, and belligerent self-entitlement are marching to the death toll of lost freedom bells ringing. For bearers of hatred so pure, it reigns a perfect love supreme. Glory be to God, eternally on our side for the righteous win. It’s a checkmate doomsday wrapped in human skin. The dance of the original sin-conga line forms over here by the decadent dancers of the high and mighty; the fix is always in. The truth is a trifle, mere fallacy that desperate losers whisper in the dark without solace or sanctuary. Brothers to the evil side, sisters without mercy. I have no place in this world anymore. The universe is my refuge; the cosmos is still my home. You can’t get there from here.
This year will be different, I hear it every time, so they say around this point every damn year's season ends to begin yet again. Remember to forget everything you know. Forgetting to remember is a failsafe mechanism designed to keep track of the days. It doesn’t matter what day it is. It’s only a setup—an expendable pawn stuck in the middle of an intentionally rigged game. You fell for the sucker punch; you paid and done got played. They are always 10 steps ahead of every move made. Giant leaps and bounds increase with annual interest rates growing higher every passing quarter.
It cannot get much better or worsen, this tale of two cities trapped together in tragic, forlorn times. No reason for a brand-new rhyming season; chalk up another empty calendar year. At least you have your health and most of your hair and teeth. On the road to well-being, scraping another day off your shoes.
The road to victory begins with a single step, trip, and fall; get up again with a big smile. It’s okay if you don’t understand. Nobody knows what they’re saying. What are they talking about here, anyway? All past grievances against your personal information shall become clear; recent discoveries shall not reveal the proper time and place. Your life’s hacked. Hijacked and hoodwinked. Never mind the muddy areas of fuzzy science involved. It’s only a matter of time before the bamboozled years pile up like old newspapers and magazines on the wet basement floor of your musty, dank consciousness. A real firetrap tinderbox there. This is precisely what they want and exactly where they want us. To fit in, feeling like a significant part of the bigger picture. Take a vote on it. Repeating the stories of long-ago distant relatives and ancestors who were born into a different world of troubles. But these were distant times. Yet every year we celebrate our birthdays with the most profound sense of ingratitude for a life worthy of living. Without a clue, we arrived at this conclusion.
Another nail in the coffin for the old who died. Give them hell for me if you have the displeasure of running into those sorry-ass chumps. Tell them you’re coming back from the dead for the revenge tour. A grudge match to the finish. The last one standing is shot in the head. The midnight Times Square revelers countdown revelations of mutual mortality. As the ball drops exactly at the witching hour, clock hands move forward just in time for fireworks and much glee and joyful jubilation. A rousing rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” spontaneously erupts in a psychic pantomime syndrome. A new viral strain for doomsday. The vaccine will not save us.
My head’s grown too large for my dunce cap. Like an overripe watermelon hissing, ready to explode. Next year, we can win back our title with the trophy of resignation. But not to worry; we haven’t given up hope. Our future faith is strong. Still hunkered down here in the trenches, fighting the battle for our immortal soul's survival. The year’s resolutions have come and gone. They haven’t been kind. It’s easy to find fault with the grand scheme of things in the hellfire of natural self-destruction. Celebrate a happy new year or the same tired, sad old year on repeat all over again.