an honest voice wakes those numb to their condition
I bore easily and escape Hell often. I’m not gone long, not that anybody notices. I am unloved. Not that I do not love—quite not that. I adore the enduring desperation of humanity.
Youth has shame. Age has fear. All have hope. None have truth. Truth dies first, but never conceals true its colours. The ironic pink of poverty. Umber for murder. Green hunger.
Humanity has a greater passion. Once a maroon moon, an honest voice rises to wake this complacent world. A shattering from here to Hell, that is heard; if heard, heeded. The rarity is me, failing to assume the voice of saint or diplomat.
I would, in my abiding adoration, leave them to their slumber. Hell would rather I shift shapes. Now a poet, now a philosopher. Stirring the world that it may endure eternity in all its boring glory.
