What the Rot has Wrought …
… cannot be undone, nor forgot.
It’s the seepage into the bones, the weary layering of burden and stripe, of withering dementia and all that sort of tripe. It’s the grease that falls between the gears and spits off into the dust, the bones of antique machinery huddled in the corner gathering nothing but rust. Leaves that fall and are ground into mulch, the blood boiling out of the decayed corpse and trickling to the earth. With worms and insectile creatures of all kinds, feeding and gorging upon the remainders that they find.
Something is broken upon this skein of Life, the turmoil it embraces is a constant demand for strife. The ball is in the other court, but their firepower is nothing compared to our fort. Contemptuous villainy splayed out against the backdrop of fun, displayed against the emotions that boil and then run. A judgement leased by consensus, the general population spiriting out decrees to build fences; it’s a complete system of fail, when the only thing holding back the song, is the Banshee’s wail.
Weeping frogs in the backyards conversing with tired dogs, an epiphany written in blood; splatter covers the walls, as the wisdom of the ages drips from it all. There is no going forward, if the way ahead is constantly braying with the fools of the dead; the fallen have lots to tell us, but only if we listen to it thus. We eschew obfuscation, but praise a lack of education; each nail in the coffin, is another historical reference forgotten like a contagion.
Nothing is coming to save us; we are on our own. As we have always been, as we most likely always will be. A mote, spiralling against the winds that blow from one side of the room to another, dimly dancing against the light so that we can see the shine of existence, held up against the possibility of persistence. The joy of being, lost in the need to be seeing. We are the thing that we’ve lost, and at the same time, the thing that we’ve pitted against the beast and soiled at such cost.
What rot have we wrought? It’s the soullessness of being in this cesspool of existence, the myriad pits of seething mediocrity, the abyssal trench of doom that we dig over and over and over again. The miasma of being in this constant battleground of ideologies and idiotic imageries, cascades of capricious carolling! Thoughtlessness, given name, a twisted sort of game.
The spin that we’re in, is a thing of cacophonous rancour; it’s the emotional tundra that keeps tugging at us like an oversized anchor. We fuel the fire of self, and belittle that which is otherwise, all in the name of dichotomy, all in the name of somebody else’s lies. Round and round this tripwire fatality continues to rotate, the world we live in fuelled by pain, fear and hate. Its a laundry list of activities of excessiveness that knows no bounds except pointless expressiveness.
Weariness is the bait by which this hook is hung, a simpering swarm of flies from a pile of dung. This whispering dreary scream that focuses its fury in the back of my skull, it’s crying out in shame, at the shame of it all. It walks slowly towards the edge, peers down, and wonders at the rush of air, at the speed with which it all goes by, and then turns into a butterfly.
Ridiculousness is the riddle by which we’re measured, the villainy of advancement and all those other things once treasured. What song was sung, that could never be a neck that was hung? None; the truest measure of the meaning, that lacks any inherent means to be screaming. It’s a solid thwack, in the back of the neck, a painful wallop and a pantfull of what the heck. Meaningfulness, is a barrel of measured thoughts; ridiculousness, is a sea full of thought nots.
The blood runs thick, it’s a salty tasting sort of thing; winding through the pathways of a life that once had a song. The tune is long gone, the words are mostly forgotten, the air of wonder soiled and turned completely rotten. Pity they who still think that the walls keep back the dark, for fools run at such lengths that they cannot see the difference between shadow and full night.
Shed a tear, for the children born after these days, as they will be forced to live within these ways. Their lives will be a spot of corruption, upon the waves of indoctrination. Their future spilt upon the oils of waste and a testimony to the bilge that remains of what was once a beautiful green place.
That’s a lot of negativity to swallow, a bellyful of unrest within which to wallow.
But, it’s the life some live, the path that some have to give. And the only thing left in such an instance, is to carry on. Surrender is not the option, not the choice; it might seem like it is easier that way, but that’s never going to hold sway. We all have a burden to carry, a thing which we hold onto, even though it continues to grace us with nothing more than pain and misery. Our choices, in such undue endeavours, is what sets us apart from the cast aside waste that we leave behind in our passing.
Remember, that each piece of existence that you treat as dismal garbage, there is somebody else who is experiencing it even worse. Your choices are manyfold: help, hurt, hide, hunt, heal. Pick your path, but understand that each has consequence, each has reward and not always what one would expect.
Power, fame, wealth – all things are fleeting and easily lost; the only thing you ever truly own, is your self, your choices.
Own your past.
Own your present.
Own your future.
And respect others to be able to do likewise.
Build Brightness, and the world will brighten your way as you wend your way through life.