The Truth of the World

Pillows float by on an endless sky; watching, waiting for some semblance of life to come and pass by. The teardrops of angels sing from the heavens and whisper – ever so gently – asking for a name. Roses bloom in the blink of an eye then fade away as fate draws near; the fear implanted deep inside. Fate is none too kind here. Fate is not one of the crying angels or their beds in the sky. No, it is the reason the tears even fall; the reason the pillows dare not touch ground. Fate is the plague; the scourge of corruption in man’s material mind, full of greed and hate and violence. The old peoples cringe against this tea-kettle onslaught that has invaded their world. And soon, the corruption will no longer be corruption, but only the expectation of every inhabitant of earth.