Neither will quench the flame
The stench will remain the same.
De-evolution to a primitive, animal-like state
While the sheep that they eat call it winning and great.
O, onward you go, sleepy sheep, with pride, to the slaughter
Pulling along with you your sons and your daughters.
Will you cry out, on that day, as loud as the Dominion will roar?
Will your weak voice be heard, or will it reach a closed door?
Cast off those shackles that tackle your mind and your heart,
But hurry, beloved readers, before they tear you apart.
The World is my Kryptonite.
It was delivered by a Canaanite.
It is so very black and white.
Black as black midnight.
White as white starlight.
Hotter than a fist-fight.
Colder than a frostbite.
It tries to lure you to the fight.
Being naturally impolite.
Always swelling with pride and might.
Soaring like a meteorite.
Exploding like dynamite.
O, but it is a parasite!
Warping every human right.
Dealing every man-made fright.
Feeding like a scabie mite.
Destroying like a forest blight.
Yet it craves a ray of Light.
From it, I remain from sight.
It is worse than any stage fright.
A never-ending snakebite.
Seeing without sight.
Hearing without height.
Choking out the sunlight.
The world is my Kryptonite.
But parts of it may turn to Light.
So its pain I will carry on.
Is all of mankind not grown forth from the same tree?
“For if man will behave this way when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”
Sparks a flyin’.
Fires a spreadin’.
“But thou must know, that thou, in the government of thy mind, art thine own lord and master, there will rise up no fire to thee in the circle or whole circumference of the body and spirit, unless thou awakenest it thyself.”
-Jacob Boehme, The Aurora