Weeks can pass and months at last,
and then before you know,
a year was here and now it's gone, forever in the past.
So when a day pops up like this that shocks the mortal senses,
It stops the clock and shakes the cage, it rattles at the fences.
The gilded guards we place along, lined up each on the edges,
Maintain routinely garrisons of golden glib pretenses.
They line the way as if to say no shock, no bad shall enter.
Our days roll on through dusk, through dawn, our thoughts safe down the center.
So days like this, that Sasquatch bitch, that roars her wrath and loud,
She snatches life, she belches strife, dispels the comfort out.
And ferrets at the fair facade that modern life conceals:
The pretense of the creature that protects us from the real.
Let's grab a moment here before the quotient quickly fades,
a product of the clever trick Distraction likes to play.
That creature Comfort quells the mood and placates all the masses.
So easy to recline you see - fat upon our asses.
Comfort softly shields away the wak'ning of the senses
then slowly slips them back into their perfect pleasure tenses.
And life slides back, then joins the ranks of slack-jawed dopes of levity.
Thinking stops, talking non-stop, the soundbite rules in brevity.