In the ripe season of empire;
we thrive on adrenaline rush
as homes split like rocks in heat.
Kill or be killed's the job we do;
words sound good but blood is truth.
Hope is zero, and life collateral.
There’s jackals laughing in the air.
The joke’s on all who forget to fear.
Enemy or friend is gibber and rage,
the stone on which to whet a knife.
I’ll forget what I’m told to
and remember nothing but noisy blur.
Ghosts in machines haunt the air,
and paranoia’s the only defense
in the ripe season of empire.
(c) copyright 2011 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.