From moon-laced mother’s magic
to sun-blind men of squared order
our history is a war map
carved with symbolic gestures;
hideous acts of secreted architecture.
So who are the heroic traitors
in this war ‘twixt sun and moon?
Those who act as subtle fulcra,
our sanity and our oneness.
Those who walk in the shadows
under obelisks’ dampening angles
and aren’t oppressed beyond action.
They see the hidden layout;
they break it down,
They are those
who are neither swayed
by the falsely designed,
matriarchs’ to patriarchs’ long,
This ongoing not-history,
a paragenesis of automatons
with happily bloodied hands
promoting their masters’ devised
tools of separation and fear,
is not ours.
Not our true history
Beware the false flags of their