One day I tasted upon my liar's tounge the sweet sugar of victory, only to
find that my pride had turned it to salt, and for
all that, it was refreshing. I
realized that sugar is everywhere, and
salt is rare, well worth
its weight in AU79.
One day I was listening, pricking
up my ears and
waiting for the the sounds, the foolish
voices radiating untrue words, the multitudes of helper brains impaired.
A thought came to me. Maybe
herds entrap the razor wire in the end, perhaps
that is the nature of the f(b)east,
Anvil, stirrup and exothermic Konga!
One fine day I lay down on the springy grass, and
let the sun shine on me. I felt
the gentle curve of the earth beneath me. I slept. I
Gray fog and
burnt tongue and
deaf ear turned inwards
the acids ceased to flow over my dendrites.
What end of days could be so terrible?