Self condemnation,
standing
at the edge of a lake,
he whispers,
into the mist,
“Take me tomorrow.
Let me
starve today.”
The disease inherent
calls forth
his injuries;
wounds yet healed
and forgotten
in his heart’s
distractions.
He sways
and shifts:
standing in the roar
of the Mass Mind,
fearing
the end
of the world.
He laughs
at the new
Liberation
we would become,
nothing but
a mockery
of the One
who has
Already
Ended.
He gazes back
upon his illness;
the rot
less threatening,
standing before the Sun,
a joke shone,
eclipsing
his
forever Moon.
Clay The Scribe 