Re-declare war.

Not enough people died, 9/8, 9/9, 9/10.

I know; I'm still here and writing.

It's a recession that's kicking in,
It's a bad time.

There's plenty of us, we're made of meat;
we're fuel.

All of us.

All of us,
already feeding a machine.

Life is a cycle, always has been,
just a grinder, circling away
perpetual motion,
perpetually circling
away.

Some have said, (and you may say)
I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one --

Someday we'll start a real war
the kind undeniable

One when finally every nation's without a choice
but to spill the oxygen-starved blood of their neighbor,
one when tears aren't worth their ratings
because those in tears are everyone,
(and when everyone's doing it, it's not news)

and all the drama will make so little sense as our final worried, gasping breaths dizzy us,

and no one's there for you,

there's no electricity, no music,
your loved one is never going to make it home.

Dad is dead.
Mom is dead.

Your laughter is the only way to react to your dream,
but no one hears you,
no one hears me,

and finally,

the art, and the desire, and the love we worked on,
our race,
comes to an end, and

-- for just a few moments --

there is peace;

and after,

maybe,

the world will live as one.

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