24 poems

Time to Draw the Line

Fascism. Genocide.
Has the people truly died?
When the mind and soul are weighed
By fa;ades that merely fade,
Truth is crushed beneath the show—
Finish them! The gates swing low,
Wide to Nothingness they yawn,
Masks remain, but Life is gone.
Reason's light has disappeared;
Madness now is crowned and cheered.

Tell the Hell, "I won't comply!"
Seek the Truth, resist the Lie.
Name corruption as your foe,
Never let deception grow.
Fear and falsehood breed defeat;
Far more cruel than death's own seat
Is a crippled life in chains—
Wake in Spirit, break the reins!
Cast the slimy sludge aside;
Will the people still abide

Like mere slugs beneath the salt,
Mourning Mind through their own fault,
Selling Soul to filth and shame,
Serving Evil without name?
Global filth has built its throne—
Madhouse fused with prison stone,
Locked inside a single frame.

Now it's time to end the game.
Leave this nightmare while you may,
Or be buried by Delusion's sway.

---

Ending variant

Now it's time to draw the line.
Leave this rotten grand design—
Or beneath Delusion's weight
You will meet a fool's dead fate.



---------------------



The Pseudo-Life Race Ends in Madness

The yellow jersey—
First to the mercy
Of rations and praise.
The polka-dot craze
Crumbles to nonsense;
Mountains of pretense,
Hills built of Lies,
Clouding all eyes.

Many have fallen—
Weak riders, all broken,
Or fools, to be plain,
Left on the terrain.
The finish is Madness.
The judges, with gladness,
Mock every climb;
The race is a crime.

Half the peloton—
Frauds carrying on,
Scoundrels who shove,
Pretending they love
Victory's gleam,
Yet draining the dream
Out of each rider,
Making minds lighter—

Empty of reason,
Harvesting treason.
Every new stage
Squeezes the sage
Out of the crowd,
Leaving the loud.

The bastards conceal
Their practiced appeal;
Survival, it seems,
Was nursed with their schemes.
A foolish old sire
Blessed the Grand Mire,
Praising the end—
Ruin, my friend.

Rules without number
Keep minds locked under,
Crushing each spark,
Dragging to dark.
Humans aren't digits,
Tags, codes, or widgets;
Numbers can't measure
Spirit's true treasure.

Small is the gain
Won by the Vile—
Such is the style
Of pseudo-life's race.

Rider, awake!
Break free for your sake.
Leave this grim track;
Don't you look back.
The judges are swine,
Your strength wears thin.
Life starts the moment
You quit—and begin.



---------------------



Rock Bottom

Rock bottom. Filth. There is no way.
All else is nonsense, lies astray.
One answer only meets the Night
Of pseudo-life: the Inner Light.

It burns within. Outside—Dark reigns.
A world gone mad, sunk deep in stains.



---------------------



The Only Way

Rock bottom. Filth. No exit's found.
All else is madness spun around.
One answer breaks the endless Night:
The Light within—the Spirit's Light.

It shines inside. Outside is Doom.
The world's gone mad in filth and gloom.



---------------------



No Way Out?

Rock bottom. Filth. No way to flee.
The rest is sham insanity.
One answer stands against the Night
Of pseudo-life—the Inner Light.

Within it lives. Without—Dark's claim.
The world sank deep in filth and shame.



---------------------



Slave's Collar

A slave's tight collar—
No hope to follow.
The noose will squeeze you dry,
And strangle mind goodbye.



---------------------



The Slave's Collar

A slave's collar—
Your fate grows smaller.
The noose will choke you through,
Till thought deserts you too.



---------------------



Collared

The slave's own collar—
A fatal halter.
The noose will crush your will,
Your mind falls deathly still.



---------------------




Slave's collar—
Death's own caller.
The noose will choke you blind,
Until it kills your mind.



---------------------



Progress?

Simple minds and murky thought,
Fear and madness, cheaply bought—
All are herded, all are penned;
Now the whole world's reached that end.

Earth's transformed into a drain,
Into one vast Digital Pen,
Built for those who proudly trade
Thought itself for dull parade.

This is hailed as "Progress" still.
Monsters tighten every will.
Hidden Evil rules the game,
Pulling every secret chain.

Reason now's a dangerous crime,
Out of step with modern time.
There's one road that still is true:
Leave the cattle pen behind.

Seek the heights, refuse the mire;
Save your soul by climbing higher.



---------------------



The Digital Pen

Simple slogans. Murky lies.
Fear that never truly dies.
Madness penned in cattle's den—
Now the whole world's one vast pen.

Every street becomes a drain,
Every screen—a Digital Chain.
Those who mock the thinking head
Call this "progress" straight ahead.

Monsters press with growing force;
Hidden Devils steer the course.
Reason now's condemned as sin—
Wisdom cannot enter in.

Only one escape remains:
Walk away from all their chains.
Rise above the crawling mass;
Only Spirit's heights will last.



---------------------




Fascism. Genocide.
A vermin tide.
Their minds have died.
To rot with them—a shame.



---------------------




Fascism. Genocide.
A swarm of vermin, hollow-eyed.
Their reason long since bled away;
To share their rot is shame's own way.



---------------------




Fascism. Genocide.
Vermin multiplied.
Reason crucified.
Rot with them?—No pride.



---------------------




Fascism. Genocide.
A nest where maggots hide.
Their minds are dead inside.
To rot with them is shame.



---------------------



Slave-Built Filth

Transnistrian filth—
Shameful to the hilt.
Where can lower bottom grow?
Yet the herd just doesn't know.



---------------------



The Slave-Made Cesspit

Transnistria's cesspit—
Vile from every aspect.
Can there be a lower low?
The herd shrugs on—it doesn't know.



---------------------



The Bottom

Transnistria's foul decay—
Shameful every single way.
Can the Bottom sink still low?
Not that cattle care or know.



---------------------



Slave-Built Sewer

Transnistria's sewer—
Viler than before.
Where's a deeper Bottom?—Nowhere.
Yet the herd cares not one whit.

---

Variant of the last line

Yet the herd couldn't care less.



---------------------




Transnistria's filth—
Shame to every breath.
Where's a deeper Bottom?—None.
Yet the herd just carries on.



---------------------



The Stench of Media

Filth for the fool,
Their favorite fuel.
The stench cuts deep—
Wake up! Don't sleep!



---------------------



Media Stink

Garbage for fools—
That's how it rules.
The stench won't cease.
Wake up from dreams!



---------------------



The Media's Reek

Filth fills the air
For fools to share.
The stench won't end—
Wake up, my friend!



---------------------



Media Stench

Filth for the fool.
That's their rule.
The stench runs deep—
Wake up. Don't sleep.