In the final hour--The annihilation of thoughts.
The death laden hour.
Desperate men take up scythes,
And cut away at their intemperate dispositions,
That are not so much flagellations;
But grand inquisitors that extinguished their brand of prognositicating medicine,
And took them gently by the hand,
Down the thorny road of intellectual suicide.
What became of their volition,
From what abode did the compulsion spring?
It may have been the tyranny of words,
And from that terror the sickness befell them,
Each in their time,
But what did life mean?
It was, for most of them, a dialog--A semantic game.
Some of them were only so many percents certain they existed at all, even if in existing there stood anything to gain.
The future, unnegotiable.
The past, vaguely remembered.
The choice, never made, is still a choice.
So let the existential barrier exclude man, to whom nothing is owed.
“I only want what I deserve,”
But that damnation is self-inflicted,
Perpetuated
Inculcated,
Ever so diligently Initiated,
By Prometheus,
The other Son of Man.
The fall was impecunious,
No dividends, accrued interests rates;
Exempt from the detriments of the lack availability of silver,
The gross domestic product,
The Consumer Price Index,
Or the ******* price of gold.
Now the tangible is irrelevant,
And value has none.
The journey of journeys is upon them.
It’s terror unblouses the hideous *****,
Of the mother of nature’s hidden agenda,
The milk of whom--before a work of sublimity--destroys a spirit belonging to a toad.
Nature is turned backwards,
And no longer feeding but emaciating,
And taking such impassioned joy,
In destroying life that before was its progeny,
Seeking now, to return being to a shapeless void.
And now absconds Father Time,
The harbinger of toil.
