Plastic flowers

It's not a good time to write...or it is a perfect time. I'm tired and hanging onto heavy lids. Not worn or deeply disturbed just weary, just today. Life is good, blue sky abound. But the nagging impending doomsday rest anxiously upon my mind's hammock. Swinging in wait I can't help but feel like the weather will break, the fighting will escalate, the states will fall and something ....something will happen. I ponder on the cloud on whether my innocents will emerge from it or if they could succeed at all.  It's a fine mess we built. Naive ignorance laid the stone that will crush us all. Worse off so Canadian is my current awareness in that I will smile at the wolf in sheep's clothing, accept my silver metal and feel ashamed at my thoughts. Helpless, Hopeless, Powerless. I am not the one that will resurrect anything. I want to be. But atlas I am bound by the very rope I weave. It's so funny. Funny in the way that I will laugh great tears of defeat and confusion. Swing, swing.... it is soothing. I drank from the vile as did you, hell I made the packaging and advertising too. Just a brainwashed brain brainwashing the sane. Lovely optimistic human spirit. Like dumb dancing children in a field of plastic flowers. Can't they smell that there is nothing left. But they are too busy dancing. And I am too busy making plastic flowers. It's over...at least 'as it was' is. But maybe some of the new will survive and be less tired and sacrifice everything to get it right. That which we so royally screwed. Because even through my disgusting weakness I feel hope, if not my own than theirs. And I hope its real.