Dissension from a recurring thought,
delving deep in the dying rift, heuristic
follies his only accruement to this disease of
life, bargaining with an unknown time to his own
demise, what death conceals is pitch black, an
achromic Hell, nothingness sees out, and nothingness
sees in, no avenging angel tallies good from wrong, no
amnesty or reward for existing in this brume of septic lodge
of liberated thought, choking out the Jerusalem occult whence
misery flung her myths, endless bulwarks, battles, and refined and
recondensed fables, every lonesome creek, binding brook, and swelling
river eventually flows into the sea of fiction, there in the sea of all reason
lies an anchor, bounded by lies and veiled as truth, where religion is the chain
and money is the ruler, steadfast in brutality and staunched with control, mankind
is forsaken by his conscience, far easier being a slave than a king, he has whittled
away from any bargain to himself, his identity, or his destiny. Dead, in pitch-black Hell.
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