Who’s To Say..

Who’s to blame, when it’s all a game to some who continue to play us, Her, and themselves. Playing with lives and making them steps to walk all-over, in their stairway climbing up to distant stars and galaxies, extinguishing the Sparks as they blaze their paths to fame and fortune, using all to be played upon with their individual hopes and dreams initiated below, spaced frontiersmen, pointing all other ways, scepter the one they’re heading for.

Games are all well and good til humans get hurt, hurting each other, as their lower classes deal with the fallout, then giving crumbs towards their next nosy investigation. Tyre of the peons now, just call it a space program and lighten the dark money, laundered in the open, funding dark with light, the best place to hide something, in plain sight. Bemused by the mass, since they’re taking what’s being handed out, and asking for more, so take some of their lives, for they’re giving it up freely, voluntarily tasking. Self-sacrifice for the spaced workers, sacrificial lambs for slaughter in powers’ sight.

Playing for eons and still playing for keepsakes… shed the dreamers with their nightly programming and Radiohead’s cashing in on their daze and confused states of conditioning. That’s what dreaming pays for, more of the same when played by instructors. more, or less. Reaching outside and never reaching an inner level of understanding.

Even the games are Beings fixed, check your score against the ultimate powers, Beings in control of the rest. What kind of Being uses the others, into being their Beings, used, cast and dyed for psyop’s sake. What One could blow another up, raping and pillaging their resonances and homes, and stopping them from leaving or giving-up… to suffer, and die in the name of one sides’ rituals, been taking place for eons, now more discreet. Always a few, subjugating the rest, to the unrest of wars and rumors of wars, now programming space at our expense.

When do games end, when perpetual ones are played to enslave mass consciousness, individually frayed. Kept in their lanes, fighting one another, while battlefields are drawn up in boardrooms. Vote for the best of the worst, as standards are raised for workers and lowered for higher classes of so-called men. A great country to belong, the best of the worst of them, that’s what it’s become… keep lowering bars, so lawyers can politicize their strategies, and raise their salaries, and make laws against all at-rest, they should be working anyway…

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