"Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience—this is the ideal life."
— Mark Twain

When conscience sleeps, your "friends" deceive,
And books spew nonsense, dull yet sly.
No biting wit—just jokes that leave
Their mark too low to hit the sky.

"Beauty is dominion without protection."
— Carneades, 2nd century BCE.


Beauty stands with no protection,
Trampled under filth and lies.
****** hands, in cruel procession,
Tighten chains as years go by.

Tender buds will never blossom,
Ripped away before they bloom.
Every sprout is crushed with caution,
Feeding roots of endless gloom.

All must perish, all must wither—
Anything that shames the Night.
Let the vermin reign together,
Drowning beauty out of sight.

To think that wisdom sets you free—
A grand delusion, blind.
Decay rules all that you can see,
And chains the sharpest mind.

Too wise? Then you won’t bear the sight
Of rot in every breath.
So, fading from the crowd’s delight,
You'll wait alone for death.

This world’s a prison, cold and grim,
Where days and nights decay.
Yet soon the Flames will burn the dim
And wipe the filth away.

The sun now shines with growing might,
Its blaze will end this Hell.
Yet Darkness writhes in bitter fright—
The Serpent knows it well.

A poisoned thorn inside you lies,
It digs in deep, unseen.
It clouds your mind with hollow cries,
Till Spirit grows too weak.

Just look—whole nations, blind and lost,
Still march without a clue.
The world is wrecked, the line is crossed—
The Spirit’s war ensues.

Defeat is near, so rise and fight,
Before it's set in stone!
Or else the verdict, cold as night,
Will be for you—alone.

**** greed, **** fear—those things you chase,
The ego’s twisted core.
Their grip dissolves when you embrace
What lies beyond their lore.

Self-searching is the sharpened knife
To split what’s true and fake.
Then cut the rot—remove the strife,
No matter what it takes.

But even then, you won’t be free,
Some ghosts may still remain.
They'll haunt your nights relentlessly
If all is not restrained.

Survival here is built on lies,
A hollow, soulless game.
They lead your spirit to demise,
Then leave a beast to tame.

That final step is close at hand,
So little time to see.
For in this dull, degraded land,
Ego is king—unchained.

Brutal, clumsy—cold and hollow,
Yet enough to block and swallow
Truth, while pushing junk and chatter
To the top—as if it mattered.

First comes Tolerance—then Frailty,
Selfish, mindless, lost in daily.
Greed and blindness, trust forsaken,
Fear and falsehood rule the shaken.

What remains? Just weary sorrow.
Bear the Filth a little longer,
Feel no pity, just be stronger—
Leave for Light, forget the hollow.

Maybe Light is nowhere near—
Try to find it, don’t give in.
Would you waste your soul within
Newborn Hell of beasts austere?!