journalism is dead

Down from this lonely mountain
I gracefully descend
A golden sunset crowning my head
Scars of castigation ornate my feeble back

Into the noise I step
Noble truth never sounded so much like regret
Role your eyes into your skull, tell me what you find
A man made tabernacel crossing the silver line

Sit next to me silence
I wan to know how you smell down here, how you sound
Your royalty speaks of abscence, or is it abstinence of lies?
At least you’re colorblind

Wash your hands before they see the stains
Of mortal man changing ink with the ordained
If you want a front row seat you better step over that body
They throw out the crashing plane

An old man says to me
„Go back to where you came from.
I for one will stay with the prayers and songs that turn greed into lead.“
I frown in disbelief, the wildfire still hasn’t reached this glade.
Old fool; journalism is dead.

 

 

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