Hypocrites
We stand in the shadows of their everlasting, pitiful chittering. They pass us by, unmolested, our skins crawl with their leaden fear. We have souls on strings, puppets to us and our twisted needs. You can do what you want and feel no fear or guilt. Their wasted bodies flutter in the stagnating nuclear winds of the painful horizons. Them ahead, you between and i sauntering, without distorted past or destiny, trail behind and watch the pain and suffering you cause with those strings and animals. You chatter as you ride your demon beasts, not real yet existent an upcoming of your sick minds. Those souls still fluttering with the long dead and rotting corpses of the birds as you let them waste. You ate them all, consumed them with golden promises and melted them with the destructive powers of the poisonous truth and distortion. Still you saunter and i am combined with the tomb of my everlasting and negligent capability. We have FBi and KGB meetings in our own source, all caused and controlled, pros and cons untrue and all false. One rules all and all rule one, i am We, and we are none, but stupefied screaming fault of powerlessness caused by ourselves and those strings, within our reach but not our pitiful capabilities. if we cannot, in our godliness and hate, control that evil and despise the labyrinth then why strive congestidly to know more. it digests us as we crawl forwards mercilessly and weak and time is our negligent resourceful mother, it drives and drives, drives us on never quite knowing and guesses terrible and hopeless. it pushes us back to our doors and slams them poorly in our foul facades of dischord until we, not its noble self are dragons of passion and torture. We rise from our coffins in twos and threes. Our disposable A frames only to feast on the agony and return to the pits of our home. it passes us and drifts in its own stupid self-satisfied dreams of honour. Why wait for others when dissatisfied pasts wait for none but those who have the blood and guts to face them. Slit, our blood flows free, with not just life but glorified pain. Where it strikes it soaks and is buried. Your own pain is your own pacified duty and others spit on you as you drop. Like flawless and dutiful sponge rags we soak up the abscess of darkness and distribute it forcefully in lands elsewhere. Farm yard animals and hell bound church goers are all as one, united in their failing search for glorification. infinity leads us to emptiness and if the gaping everything is gone then we are such but twisted grubs. The gun held trembling to our blood stained, throbbing face is not our own but belongs to us. The bulimic gratefulness we used for grip has slipped at once into pure envy and we fall towards the chasm. Such as characters on a game we are dolls, controllable without force. You do what you like without justice or greasy punishment and we sad individuals suffer and swallow our liquids which we drown in. Elegant yet horrific abominations of unnatural mutations progress like flies, eating on waste. We will al burn and so shall all else in this mutual world of sparseness. They think and walk and sink their razor sharp mandibles dripping with darkened saliva into our flesh, our body of life. Why fight when all is one and we are it.
