Non linear, tangential roads leading to dead ends or calamitous outcome and a steady dose of fear prompting us choose them. The World is in trouble. Men have lost their love and patience for one another and the blood raises in their eyes as they seek viable option. From nowhere arise preposterous advisors counseling no forgiveness and throwing all in disagreement to the furnace fire. Small voices drifting into slumber or lost against the gunwales counsel reason, abstinence and understanding, but few listen and less have the patience to ponder meaning.

Unequivocal positions taken against even those in the squad interior. No one is safe from the flaying tongues of dissatisfaction. All feel the wrath of those wanton. New fires kindle by short fuses leaning to close to eternal flame seek conflagration. All want war yet yearn for peace and find themselves lain to the bone in the irony. Dancing on hand grenades and short tempers the ballerinas who once were the darlings of public perception now are the raw meat to some who would consume them. No pledges, no new fledgling soul mates seeking passionate expression and dynamism of youthful experience. Now the cold, hardened stare of carnivores chase down hapless youth too afraid to fight for deliverance.

Man has lost his mind in the hysteria preceding Empire. Those who would restrain this oddity are caught in their own struggle misperceiving the meaning of it is finished. Evolution disproven all should find the folly in their raising. Cells are held together by the space between atoms. When force fleets the eggs that were once beaten hatch hazard and reckless abandon. Where are the men who once chased wisdom, begging God in discernment’s grip to deliver them from the harlot or hangman’s noose? Where have the bright imaginative minds of children found their quarry?

We have locked ourselves into the double sides of midnight, longing for morning but lusting for the moon. Saints serving themselves another helping of retirement, someone deep within knowing they will never reach the season. For this is the shattering of the hopeful or the delight of those with readied fuel. Some fashion any new passion to take their mind from worry. Few save for days yet known, not to deploy a fashioned hope in relaxation but to prepare their hearts for harvest, that the daunting work of fulfillment be readied for the job boss. And in cold harmony they hope that zombies haven’t heard them. As doing right is not longer a right among the freed men.

Where to Kings who have no charisma, lacking the character to talk themselves round banquet dance floor. Whose passion and parlay are always seeking privy. Days without end pressuring the willing to give up their patience on summer. And in the dark, where whispers once frightened now blood thirsty shouts of those lain about to take hold of innocence. And in our dreams we see the ride spin faster, trapped in our seats by centripetal force, captured in pursuit of six pence or a headache lasting throughout long winter’s slumber. To the Spring most look longing for normalcy, for Love lone since expired. Now to the hardened hearts of those forgotten, leading into the darkness as if were home.