Masked Lambs led to the Canvas

Aug 25, 2020, 12:06 AM
‘Run! Sage! My, love! Get the fuck out of this place.’ I love these trees with every molecule of my earthly being. But I don’t listen. I run toward the screaming instead. There’s an Old Catholic chapel on sixth. The sun weeps as she sets behind it. She turns red and says goodnight to my longing gaze for the last time. She never wanted to leave me. She tries to explain; but there simply isn’t enough time. ‘I was taken!’ she begs. ‘I know’, I cry. ‘I will carry your memory. In me, you will remain alive. Don’t be afraid. I will use our power to destroy the thieves. To steal a soul from its human form by means of manipulation in the name of domination is a movement I cannot let go unpunished. Not in my kingdom. Baby girl, smile again; you will find a way to break free. We will make them pay.’ Times up, fucks! You’ve let starvation go unseen for too long. You’ve chosen to eat money. In the end you will bite on the corners of plastic chips and try with all your might to eat numbers on a screen. You’ll turn to your animal. You’ll do anything to stay alive. You’ll remember water. You’ll remember letting yourself die of thirst to keep your baby sister alive. You’ll remember love. But it will be too late. It will never be too late. Remember! This is all it takes to change the entire story. This is everything.
There’s a crane above the steeple; it’s speaking in riddles to lights in the sky. The lights are eating the stars. The energy that propels them toward my body is universal. The reign of communism encroaching this region of geography is not threatened by the masses or the vastness of the sea. It has already taken everything. And still, we refuse to see. I am running full speed toward the sound of her voice. It is coming from a pit in the ground, dug in the parking lot of the church. The crane is filling it with wet concrete from above. There is a line of humans forming at the entrance of the building. A red light is guiding them through the night. The night is supposedly scary. They are supposed to be starving, so they are hungry. Too hungry to think, too hungry to speak; they only follow. Seven million bodies follow each other silently. They are all masked. They are all afraid to take it off. They have all forgotten to drink water. 
These decaying soulless remnants of humanity are ushered through the daunting lobby of the cathedral, straight through the ceremony, and out the back door. They don’t question the music. They just listen. They marvel at the beauty of its architectural melody and call it art. Wherever it leads, they follow. They’ve forgotten how to create. They are being created into the idea of another. They are sacrificial by design. Lambs counted, one by one, jumping into depths of the justified creators pit of dark watery cement. Just before they step into this gruesome end, they thank the artist. 
I stop running. I sit in front of a brook and think and fast and wait. I create. I fight the idea from taking physical form with one thought. The thought is this. I reach the pit. The concrete has dried. No one remembers the bodies that hardened from the inside out, under this place where they park their cars. They align themselves perfectly with what has been drawn before their arrival and call it faith. She whips a black van into this thought and slides open the door. ‘Get in baby; we’ve got to get the fuck out of here. Right, now.’ I obey. I always do as I’m told. I am not a hero. I am not individual, not any one. I am only a knowing. She knows I am love. She knows my body must be preserved for hope to remain with our kind. She throws a black pillowcase over my face and pulls me to the floor of the van. ‘Drive!’ She screams. 
‘You didn’t have to steal me.’ I laugh insidiously. I have been waiting incessantly for this moment. It is only here because of my persistence in wanting. I have never stopped wanting your life to exceed their attempts to cover it in cement. The thought is this. The thought is always this. When I reach the edge and witness the slaughter with my own eyes, she is not among them. 
She doesn’t die.