At the precipice of its expanse, Mankind seethes
With decadent angst; obfuscates its eyesight with
Pleasure, emotion, and sentimentality,
While things as they stand crumble for iniquity.
By avarice and grandiose pride, blood stains their
Hands; the Father and Mother of Order lay at
Their feet, rotting and crumbling into the dust from
Whence they came; their breath, a sweet gift, burgled from them.
Their fey children gnash and lacerate their own flesh,
Churning in filth and refuse sans a foundation;
Eviscerating each other without reason;
Delegating their power to ardor and lust.
With hands that clasp at all, without eyes to see
Or ears to hear, they thoughtlessly jockey for ground,
Unable to recognize the foolhardy quest
They set forth for themselves: a tragedy of will.
Down the line, atomized and divided, they grow;
Casting out the grace of form and flow for a corpse;
A hollow home of spurious authority,
Deprived of the fire that had once granted them life.
The broken and feral, once viciously sorted,
Are crushed beneath the skeletal structure they stole
Through the murder and starvation of the blessed;
Those whose lives would not succumb to forsaken lies.
Yet before their mind’s desire overcomes them —
A dreamscape born of denial and mania —
For a brief moment of bliss, there’s an earthly peace,
Loathsome to any who are witness to the light.
From top to bottom and back again, the whole falls;
Man’s made one — even in’s material essence —
By primordial fury born of rage and spite,
Consuming and consumed by the chaos of night.
The chaff descends into its anthropophagous
Buffet — a meal of madness and self-destruction —
Whose dessert is a resplendent morning flower;
A shimmering being of universality.