What if the war machine
was a tarnished memory
and the void between
the pillars
Why there is not contentment for the content
but and endless series
of Roman pillars inside celibate convents.
The pillars of the Panthéon are bars in a demented prison
fermented with the stench of a rancid batch
of torrid dreams.
A palace of pain an pleasure,
a hotbox of sin for the devil's leisure.
Leapt to every level of Dante's hell
and up again
No knowledge have I aquired,
but confusion, a quiet
illusion, and I am tired,
oh, so witheringly
tired.
"We are drawn to the concept of escape"
Nietzsche said.