A Foul Passing

 

A Foul Passing

 

It stands before them mouthing dire prophecy,

It would enact should it come to that.

Thus it feeds on the adulation of the unclean,

Made soiled by their own hand.

For its soul is empty,

Or gone altogether,

Sacrifices have been made.

More are to come.

And they stand before it,

Willing and desperate,

Needful of meaning.

 

They sacrifice compassion for ideals of cruelty,

Reveling in drama they create for themselves.

Hollow lives drawn in neon and tinfoil,

Too aware they are ingenuine.

For their souls are empty,

Or are sold outright.

Sacrifices have been made,

And they will give more yet,

Desperate for meaning.

 

So they follow their silicon savior,

More plastic than themselves.

For it represents what they cannot be,

As it too cannot be,

As it too is false,

As it too has nothing,

Is nothing,

Just a voice made of smoke and foul wind,

Dissipating and seen through at last.

Loudly it cries against the revealing light,

Coarse and desperate,

Devoid of meaning.

 

It is a passing thing.

It is a blowing stench,

Comprised of fouled steams:

A vapor diseased,

Insubstantial in duration,

Staining the light,

But just for a little while.

Time and truth are its enemies,

So be not desperate -

It has no meaning,

It is not relevant,

It is passing.

 

Cliff Lake 3/28/2024

Copyright © Clifford Lake 2024