Friends, humans, patriots, lend me your earsβ
What I say touches all our hopes and fears.
The deep truth of this war's muddled in doubtβ
I'd like to share some things I've figured out.
What unglimpsed hints still lurk behind Q's posts?
Faceless powers that fade from view like ghosts?
What's the key to what would βhospitalizeβ
The ninety-nine percent that hide their eyes?
I've traced connecting lines that seem to show
That all along, we've had more than we know.
Two sources created in mutual isolation
Both point to an identical conflagration;
Sources waiting βhidden in plain sightβ
For fresh eyes to give their bark a bite;
Coincidence of claims that asks too much
Of rationalism's failing little crutch.
Thus friends, fellow humans, I come to you,
To share what I am forced to say is true,
And paint a picture that can't be unseen
I tell youβ what a long strange trip it's been!
Something evil is knocking at the door.
And this isn't just some moral metaphor.
It's real.
And to survive, we must begin to dealβ¦
But from the start a problem that we face
In trying to get the truth installed in place
Is that the truth is of a sort we're taught
To discount and scoff at without thought;
Most people lack all hearing, smell, and vision
Outside the Overton window's strict permission.
But then, what is this βwindowβ in our face
That neatly tucks the narrative in place?
What is this box that public thought maintains
Is the only good shelter for rational brains?
The Overton Window is nothing but the way
Social conditions dictate what we say
And think, and what we will even permit
To enter our belief system's orbit.
Most people don't examine half the thought
Implicit in the worldview that they got
Fed to them in childhood or at collegeβ
Who reads the cards that make his house of knowledge?
The social instinct that's so strong in us
Gives us thoughts we ride in like a bus;
We placidly sit, and ride from here to there
Content, though never stopping anywhere,
Calm, as long as we have our friends along
To play a game, or sing a familiar song.
And so the frames of popular belief
Bind our minds like kindling in a sheaf.
And any truth that doesn't fit just so,
Drops in a box of things we never know.
Such truths may get tamped down like powder and shot
Before the spark that makes the musket hot.
And so I tell you: people, please wake up
And dump the poison kool-aid from your cup,
Served from such a strange cafeteria
As the murky kitchens we call 'mass media'.
Think outside the beliefs you only hold
Because your mind's too timid to be bold;
The herd-verdict doesn't hold up in courts
Outside the jurisdiction of brays and snorts.
The safe thoughts, chosen so we'd get along,
Burn all alike, when they turn out to be all wrong.
The point of the preceding words' profusion
Is that group-think justification's an illusion.
The sense of scoffing that seems so smart and true
Is based on nothing more than the public 'moo'.
I say this now because I know I must
Explain things that will tend to make heads bustβ
The absolute bizarreness they implyβ
But we must meet this thing with steady eye,
And adjust, those of us who can. And pray.
As we will see, there is no other way.
And remember too, that though new terror waits
By this fact, new Light also incarnatesβ¦
So here's the story in a mini-nutshell:
An influx is coming, here, from some kind of hell.
How can we see this? Let's go source by source,
And try to chart our explanation's course:
We have Q's drops, the stated and the implied:
The track in which these other facts will ride.
We know PURE EVIL in some unknown form
Lies behind the churning of the storm;
We know our enemy's βnot of flesh and bloodββ
But has this idea ever been understood?
Have we grappled with what this could mean?
What party is Strzok's βespionage machineβ?
What power, dug tenaciously in place
Insures the smirk on Jeffrey Epstein's face?
What levels does his temple bottom out in?
Have we really grasped βthe thought of Satanβ?
We know that symbolism is a keyβ
Have we understood this thoroughly?
Do symbols interact with our free will?
Do good and evil battle for that hill?
How far-flung are the nerve-ends of control
We know wrap Reddit, Twitter, Facebook, and /pol/?
Behind all others, one question quietly screams
Shadowing all, hidden beneath the seams;
One question that all others turn upon,
Which yet is never asked by the βanonβ;
One question towards which every line converges
One anxiety that every nightmare urges:
Who's the final boss of everything?
What black hand, that pulls what final string?
This we do not know and do not ask
Even though we have no other taskβ¦
***