The Ugly Head of Reason

It comes down to this. That which we fight against is lightly dancing just before our eyes. Though it may fade at intermittent times, the orbits of its journey are the cogs of mind unmovable, perfection in their gift to us, while we, our tantrums never at an end, attend the arsenal of war. We're good at it, this masquerade of hymnody to peace and justice faintly crying out, but interspersed with celebration of some victory attained upon a lesser man, growing ever smaller in our sight. What kind of victory is that? And reason? An empty act of will, a chimera of modesty and just is its claim of silence. This, our battlefield and this, our nemesis; the spark within grows dim, and cold... and without a care. I never knew oblivion was just a word away. ~