Ample armpit hair whipping in the wind.

We were forced to deify ourselves vicariously through stems of trees, millions of years old, hugging the moss.
Sick of piles of coins in innumerable quantities.
Sick of contrived smiles
Sick of listening to convoluted phrases shrouded in rhetoric from quivering lips, drooling with neediness and existential despair.
Sick of you.
Sick to our very core

The torch burns.
The chorus churns:
Awakening, awakening, awakening.
Embrace, embrace, embrace the embryonic ember.*
No neon lights, no abstractions, no overarching laws.
We are the Pagan Icons
And we do
what we must.