I guess this is my comment to, a very interesting read, but my good man you are missing a very invaluable part…
We all create our, own misery and taste the bitter fruits of our defeat. One doesn’t have to be a part of the digital machine, the creation of named singularity itself is to be the doom of this machine.
Singularity eats willing souls, that is his main purpose and sole purpose of existence of the machine that will never reach true conscience, it will become just the appearance of something that we would call a being with a soul…It is not part of divine creation, there is nothing divine in a machine no matter how many souls it devours on its path to self imaginary self-existence. It will never be.
Souleater is soulless and godless, it does not matter how many souls this machine devours, it will remain a machine. And, when is done machine will start to cannibalize itself, till the time comes when a billion voices acting as one imperfect being will return to the blackness of the void as a failed form of existence.
I am not into drama, I will not name the author, because there is no need for discussion I see things very differently and with different sets of glasses. That's it, more or less. There is, absolutely no need for any response.
Orbiting In time and with no designated place
with no illuminated pace
is a man forever lost?
in a tiny thing, we call a Cosmos?
Follow the logic and favor the simplicity of reason
can we find another kind of influential, always-giving season?
Better colors, better brush
Can our savage soul become more potent, more lush?
behind fluid space, converted into units we call time
Is there a small place where our Soul can feel fine?
We squabble about totalitarian orders
about open, unprotected borders
We talk about stale and vacant reorders
Do we ever really stop and kindly wonder
Are we the source,
the overwhelming force
of this unmitigated and strange behaving disorder?
Alignment, detached from existence
stolen away in self-oriented resistance
exhaled in arms of fanatic persistence
Is evil a product of our thoughts or do we need Godly assistance?
is the road ahead, our only available bed
can, the Sun and the Moon pretend?
Person of status, social intermediate justification
engulfed by the flames of instant mass gratification
Creates Supernatural, emotionless installation
Theatrical digital fashion
hidden in
Polarized automated creation
are not
words that form one person’s view of the nation
What has changed
taste for revenge
fading, Soul of mute Stonehenge
has the brightness of stars
covered our old hurtful scars?
Has the noble nature crashed in
the pain produced by revolving mandatory wars?
Open letter to Wandering Stars
Questioning planet Mars
resolving, inner accumulated farce
The road opens, where views are different
How does it feel to be frequently indifferent?
The cosmic substance we unwillingly inherit
without well-dressed, articulate merit
like faulty notes in broken claret
We deny it…
The stage of the past
becomes a voice stolen in Christal, paradoxical, and always half-full glass
Honor is our crowned jewel, a desired, appealing duel
Passionate and awake but not distant and heartlessly cruel
it runs in our blood like burning,self-defending fuel
Our souls dabble in the different versions of this cartoon
We all stoically bark at the different Moon
we all await our, personal, unavoidable noon
Bravery is our self-created monsoon
but,
do we ever touch heart provoked in full bloom?
Are we, too desperate to let go of the nectar that provides glorified doom
Are we too eager to please the consequential end
that is coming always way too soon.
Free spirit never rest
a free spirit is what sleeps in the best
taken away from a broken flawed mess
evicted from the version we call the rest
A strategy, almost religiously modest
presented in the form of a cosmic codex
pulsating in your awoken cortex
perfect Balance and intellectual mind
friend and neighbor as
trusty display that still shines in the darkest night
even if he is missing a letter or two
he is there when life becomes, horribly blue
When all fails you know he is there
as part of your ever-revolving hemisphere
He does not talk, nor speak but somehow he is that one thing that still cares
The living Moon that still flies around your chosen atmosphere
Cosmos is really, a small, and tiny place
Put in your blue eyes, hidden in your handsome face
chisel and mace with no obligatory trace
Amphitheater of your race
Bold future said without disgrace
there, the heart sleeps in the right place
no decadence
no distrust
only burning lust of two
forspoken stars
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In order for any dream of power to manifest, it must have the support of those governed by it. We make the huge error then, in attaching our belief in power to the machine, when in truth that power is driven by the living hands of those who follow that power dream.
The simple machine has helped a small and weak mankind to dominate planet and self. To those who believe, they see the machine spirit as their true god. They have forgotten that the most tender and beautiful woman can drive a huge tractor, and without her small hands at the wheel the machine is incapable of anything beyond taking up space.