Mainstream outlets argue that the large and persistent white plumes left behind by planes flying at high altitudes are ice crystals formed through rapid condensation.
Excellent research in pulling all of this together. It has sure felt daunting to me at times looking above, knowing this is going on, and wondering "how am I meant to do anything good when they're going to keep at this??"
I wrote the following poem with this article and that idea in mind. Let me know how this finds you.
It is no theory as I was mentioning it to an elderly gentleman who is in his eighties about the comtrails he sail he was in the airfare when he was in his thirties and had done spraying
Thank you, Rain, for Being YOU! God bless you 😇
FYI: Included below is a website - a group from BC - that is doing great work to expose this «darkness» that is being imposed on us.
www.geoengineeringfreecanada.com
Excellent research in pulling all of this together. It has sure felt daunting to me at times looking above, knowing this is going on, and wondering "how am I meant to do anything good when they're going to keep at this??"
I wrote the following poem with this article and that idea in mind. Let me know how this finds you.
----
Final Gambit
High above, on checkerboard skies,
they play us like a game of chess,
fantasising and strategising
on how to impose their progress.
Hovering above our territory,
with suspense so tense and agonising,
they cannot help but flaunt their wealth
and so the silver spray then flies.
Down below the checkerboard skies,
pawns work to make this fate accepted.
They say the air of the heir isn't toxic,
and take out pieces whose voices objected.
The battle line clouds are now a new normal,
and the weapon of our lungs become hypoxic.
A checkmate draws that little bit closer,
hidden in a silver spray of lies.
Just beyond the checkerboard skies,
there sees the beginning of a new game,
not one waged in clouds of deception,
for its clear that playbook needs rejection.
The seeding there happens not in the sky,
but in the earth, where there's no sci-fi
high-crime, comply-or-die nonsense:
There's only water and love to dispense.
And as nature grows us the beanstalk,
we'll rise above the doom-and-gloom talk,
above the chemtrails laid like tripwires,
to reach the castle of the fear suppliers.
And while they're busy dining on hubris
we return stolen gold to the fruitless.
Sure, when they realise, there'll be a storm,
but in their final gambit we'll be sure,
that while they can play chess all they want,
we have nearly completed our jigsaw.
It is no theory as I was mentioning it to an elderly gentleman who is in his eighties about the comtrails he sail he was in the airfare when he was in his thirties and had done spraying