now it comes to this
They are creatures of the moment, and they’ve created a dream glove to wear over the hand of injustice strangling America, ney the world. Suffocating righteousness with a purposeless indulgence to rule of law. Penetrated with a spirit of vile intent, and touting erudite expressions idolizing second-hand inventions of phrase and fable. Do not be taken in by their words. Do not fall blind into their limitless limited scope. Admitting the presence of evil men does not negate their strives towards evil deeds.
Beyond that deep chrome precipice sleeps an unweeded garden of intolerance, our nations heart, wherein has blossomed an unrestrained refinement of the art of exclusion. An apathy and malaise so vehemently opposed to the benefits and necessity of adaptation and change to the point of cartoonish perversity.
How has this come to pass? Does evil exist at the heart of man from the frail tears of conception or does it incestuously melt away from the core of virtue when left unchecked, like a rough and smoky seed of sin? How does a man come to judge love as a vice? War as glorious and honorable? Lives as expendible? Does a seat in the lap of luxury whet an appetite for disregard towards those less shrouded by dexterous and illusory comforts? Perhaps the resolve to perch on a seat of inhumanity is natural, perhaps it is nurtured by ignorance. I am willing to give man the benefit of the doubt.
One explanation for the derivation of heartless men is that they are the product of an irreconcilable worldview. In youth, we are connected to our collective pasts, the lessons gleaned therein, and the constant bombardment of new memories reinforcing hope and excitement, the creative vitality of being young. I need not point out that these salad days fall away as years pass, straying towards the melancholic twists and turns of cold and uncaring reality. But the mind of youth years to remain, the carefree nurtured labyrinth of vanity undistilled, an ego fettered milk at breast, a outlook out of pace with realism. No place to remain, anger and a sense of futility drive the joy and compassion from a tortured soul, clouding pleasures behind the frustrated pragmatisms of necessity, leaving callous corpses that stare unseeing eyes at distant horizons obscenely, atrociously, and nightmarishly sheltered from the very fabric of innocence that they self-servingly claim to cling to the harshly battered remnants of.
We are left with slaughter. Weary stale and crowded kingships flushing galled salt teary eyes over purity defiled, with no one to blame. Sumos quod sumos, not that this is any justification. Nor indictment. I simply cannot sit silently while good men pay for some one elses let downs. And yet I am mutable in my anger, chiming tender tones of regret waved in a suffocating sea of scores of acute griefs.
Beyond that deep chrome precipice sleeps an unweeded garden of intolerance, our nations heart, wherein has blossomed an unrestrained refinement of the art of exclusion. An apathy and malaise so vehemently opposed to the benefits and necessity of adaptation and change to the point of cartoonish perversity.
How has this come to pass? Does evil exist at the heart of man from the frail tears of conception or does it incestuously melt away from the core of virtue when left unchecked, like a rough and smoky seed of sin? How does a man come to judge love as a vice? War as glorious and honorable? Lives as expendible? Does a seat in the lap of luxury whet an appetite for disregard towards those less shrouded by dexterous and illusory comforts? Perhaps the resolve to perch on a seat of inhumanity is natural, perhaps it is nurtured by ignorance. I am willing to give man the benefit of the doubt.
One explanation for the derivation of heartless men is that they are the product of an irreconcilable worldview. In youth, we are connected to our collective pasts, the lessons gleaned therein, and the constant bombardment of new memories reinforcing hope and excitement, the creative vitality of being young. I need not point out that these salad days fall away as years pass, straying towards the melancholic twists and turns of cold and uncaring reality. But the mind of youth years to remain, the carefree nurtured labyrinth of vanity undistilled, an ego fettered milk at breast, a outlook out of pace with realism. No place to remain, anger and a sense of futility drive the joy and compassion from a tortured soul, clouding pleasures behind the frustrated pragmatisms of necessity, leaving callous corpses that stare unseeing eyes at distant horizons obscenely, atrociously, and nightmarishly sheltered from the very fabric of innocence that they self-servingly claim to cling to the harshly battered remnants of.
We are left with slaughter. Weary stale and crowded kingships flushing galled salt teary eyes over purity defiled, with no one to blame. Sumos quod sumos, not that this is any justification. Nor indictment. I simply cannot sit silently while good men pay for some one elses let downs. And yet I am mutable in my anger, chiming tender tones of regret waved in a suffocating sea of scores of acute griefs.
posted by DMM at 11/21/2006 03:20:00 PM
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