I am the vestigial tail at the end of Man's backbone, ugly and useless, a mutilation.
My heart is hung out in the torrential monsoon, with hopes that rain will cleanse it,
unroot the seed of dreams in it and drown the will that burns it.
I am of a mind that now is the second coming of the Dark ages,
that the modern age is but an amalgamation of slavery.
Society is the enslaved collective that strives for superfluousness.
An excess of wealth, beauty and mortality.
This now is an age of restlessness. Peace and contentment is for the weak,
happiness is transitory and The plague is melancholy.
Nothing lasts in this great Nile of annihilation.
Losing our independence, one childish dream at a time.
Woe betide my vision. Woe betide my soul's eye that does not see.
I am the calyx of destruction, supporting this flower of evil that seduces itself,
an autogenous sin that maligns my diseased sincerity.
My volition is a wayfarer of the sea, once resolved, as utile as driftwoods.
This is the shores of my mind. What washes upon it do not stay.
Ever flickering in this misbegotten age, waiting to manifest
my asphyxiated delusions in a triumphant display,
bitterly, I give flight to my dismay.
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Written in a dark mood, hence an embellished mind sometime last week.
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