THE FIRE OF THE DRY SOUL
The day hath upon its brow marked its prose as dilapidated daisy, the daydream flushed sour, soaring homely to mother mentioning martyrs in mouse squeeks to infidels fiddling with hand grenade pins, before the hour glass - gin glass let out its many faced djinn, and the fire of the dry soul was put out in alcoholic frenzy, alchemizing inversely, as square root of troubled ratio, uneven in temperament, falling by the wayside, before selfie taking hordes, of ‘sociostatus’ reproducing parents, in noble market cosplay, as visionaries, or those with mission statements and conviction and ambition, standing before the twin molochs of Mammon and State, as colluders with boundaries marketing the I from the not I, and tribalistically thinking only of themselves. Killing the others like worms, and two tiered reality, parasitic, with one corrupting the other to legitimate exploitation and domination.
The Great Ones are few, say another, and the many are wrong, base, and vile. Watch them! How quickly they betray one another. How totally they lack in scruples. No care have they for each other’s wellbeing. They corrupt themselves. The wise are few, and animals naturally band together that are similar in a hostile world. Spirit moves and speaks unevenly. The worm and the man are close, but one is far more developed than the other.