We Are Not Finished

Sector Seven

post-punk, spoken-word, electronic (post-punk / minimal electronica)

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V5.5

Count it.

Not as comfort.
Not as rescue.

Count it
because something underneath
has not agreed
to disappear.

They built their rooms
above our weather.

Signed the ceiling.
Priced the air.

Called it order
when the doors locked.

Called it normal
when nobody stared.

They sold tomorrow
in careful language.

Moved the numbers.
Changed the names.

When the tables started shaking,
they blamed the hands
that held the frame.

And we learned
to lower the volume.

We learned
the public face.

We learned
to stand in line
inside a burning place.

But learning is not surrender.

Silence is not consent.

The end they keep announcing
has not happened yet.

We are not finished.
We are not done.

Not by the men
who count the damage.

Not by the weight
of what they have begun.

We are not finished.
We are not closed.

There is a future
under pressure.

There is a sentence
no one knows.

They taught us panic
as a schedule.

Taught us hunger
as a law.

Taught us every crooked bargain
had a flag
and therefore was.

They made corruption
sound administrative.

Made obedience
sound mature.

Made every window
face the market.

Made every promise
insecure.

And some of us
became the echo.

Some of us
became the wall.

Some of us
survived by naming
nothing
at all.

But a closed mouth
is not a verdict.

A tired hand
can still refuse.

The future is not property
for frightened people
to misuse.

We are not finished.
We are not done.

Not by the men
who count the damage.

Not by the weight
of what they have begun.

We are not finished.
We are not closed.

There is a future
under pressure.

There is a sentence
no one knows.

There are years
when hope is propaganda.

There are years
when despair
is obedience.

Both arrive
wearing uniforms.

Both ask you
to stop thinking.

So let this be
more difficult.

Not faith.
Not comfort.
Not the bright lie
that everything is fine.

Only continuity
resisting conclusion.

Only the refusal
to let their ending
become mine.

Not yet.

Not signed.

Not counted out.

Not named
by the mouths
that profit from doubt.

Not final.

Not owned.

Not reduced
to a managed decline
and a borrowed throne.

We are not finished.
We are not done.

Not by the men
who count the damage.

Not by the weight
of what they have begun.

We are not finished.
We are not closed.

There is a future
under pressure.

There is a sentence
no one knows.

We are not finished.
We are not done.

Not every morning
belongs to the machinery.

Not every name
belongs to the ones
who bought the sun.

We are not finished.

Not yet.

And if the room
has made you smaller,

if the age
has made you quiet,

listen.

Not to them.

Underneath.

You
are not finished.

2670/7500

Count it. Not as comfort. Not as rescue. Count it because something underneath has not agreed to disappear. They built their rooms above our weather. Signed the ceiling. Priced the air. Called it order when the doors locked. Called it normal when nobody stared. They sold tomorrow in careful language. Moved the numbers. Changed the names. When the tables started shaking, they blamed the hands that held the frame. And we learned to lower the volume. We learned the public face. We learned to stand in line inside a burning place. But learning is not surrender. Silence is not consent. The end they keep announcing has not happened yet. We are not finished. We are not done. Not by the men who count the damage. Not by the weight of what they have begun. We are not finished. We are not closed. There is a future under pressure. There is a sentence no one knows. They taught us panic as a schedule. Taught us hunger as a law. Taught us every crooked bargain had a flag and therefore was. They made corruption sound administrative. Made obedience sound mature. Made every window face the market. Made every promise insecure. And some of us became the echo. Some of us became the wall. Some of us survived by naming nothing at all. But a closed mouth is not a verdict. A tired hand can still refuse. The future is not property for frightened people to misuse. We are not finished. We are not done. Not by the men who count the damage. Not by the weight of what they have begun. We are not finished. We are not closed. There is a future under pressure. There is a sentence no one knows. There are years when hope is propaganda. There are years when despair is obedience. Both arrive wearing uniforms. Both ask you to stop thinking. So let this be more difficult. Not faith. Not comfort. Not the bright lie that everything is fine. Only continuity resisting conclusion. Only the refusal to let their ending become mine. Not yet. Not signed. Not counted out. Not named by the mouths that profit from doubt. Not final. Not owned. Not reduced to a managed decline and a borrowed throne. We are not finished. We are not done. Not by the men who count the damage. Not by the weight of what they have begun. We are not finished. We are not closed. There is a future under pressure. There is a sentence no one knows. We are not finished. We are not done. Not every morning belongs to the machinery. Not every name belongs to the ones who bought the sun. We are not finished. Not yet. And if the room has made you smaller, if the age has made you quiet, listen. Not to them. Underneath. You are not finished.

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