The Seeds are Sewn

Seeds of what may come haunt my mind,
not fear but possibility echoes hard,
like cold metallic pings, relentless;
and knowing a humanity that cares not for change,
may cause an implosion of no recompense.

Truths like smoke waft in and out of consciousness,
ethereal plumes filled with outrageous reality,
burdens of unthinkable dreams alive,
as if fancy proven true and reality as we knew it, a lie,
spoon-fed from beginning to end.

Sad the truth of our distracted lives,
oblivious, smiling refuges from actuality,
amused and numbed and not caring at all,
what ensues before our very eyes,
and what’s hidden to finally, suddenly be realized.

What if all the pawns, we sacrifices for our own good,
were to crave the power of queen or knight,
to know what plans tether all,
made by those very few, who hide truth
and hold the world on delicate strings, forestalled.

Just who is in control is my greatest fear,
is it here on earthly realms or perhaps elsewhere,
in conflict of struggles immemorial,
beneath our radar, above our pay-grade,
soon to be exposed.

The seeds are sewn, and truth eventually rises,
regardless of intentions, of plans laid in concrete,
for no-one is above truths persistent call,
its striving for light, its mirrored soul,
and when it announces its coming, the world will still.