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victims of the ictus…

the fools are magicians and those we figured were for the best scholars and wizened wizards actually were really foolish pretenders faking their way to the imaginary top of whatever heap was thought can easily make them champions among men whose ways are distant and nostalgic as the ‘venerated saint’ is yet another way of saying ‘fool’ though with much more respect as the spectrum so ordains it necessary in among the common vulgar people who sit and laugh and are entertained by the plights of all of those who suffer to make things better in this brooding den of antagonists we have become in order to get to all the work done and the results we implied before the window of opportunity closes, so we can never wholly silence the voices speaking in out-of-turn with each other trying to search out reasons in the logic like weapons and armor to defend against this harsh series of consequence arriving in a tumult between what the actual reality and that which is thought reality or true yet is not once a refutable argument comes with its own set implications to claim a proof in light of burning stigmas that yield only pain and pressure in shifting loyalties counter to oneself, but the stress from an everyday world will not relent unless the individual finds a way to vent the pushing that becomes general law as an atmosphere filled of dread that absolves no one as we are all guilty in this place filled with victims in wait to ride this frightening living all the way to the edges of the fringe where enemies can be seen from miles away as the minions of a holy death they are putting their severe challenges in front of us to screen out rotten ones in whose heads are as solid as the rock we break building our concrete web of cities and streets… which is why to segue for poetry and verse as when these menacing eyes and mouths glare and speak fearsome things at us making us feel small and diminutive as when all we really crave is love from our deepest pores in a form of compassion and understanding instead of brutal words spent like rounds fired to wound flesh even as words leave no mark on your skin, they resonate within those things bouncing inside of heart and mind both reeling from the insensitive pings that strike the surface sending shockwaves through the carcass as crass pin-sharp missiles dig in to stab and to yield nothing until these wriggling words reach their targets between the ears so the irate feelings sizzle as the heat builds up to a ridiculous frenzy spoken in flames, but even horrible jokes won’t cool off the person imprisoned by the actions of others reading the signs for another bout of struggle with the forces inner as much outer attempting to overhaul this whole fetish of self currently thought of as a most real form of progress from subjective angles even though it is these anglers who appear to have some insightful instinct that will spin hours of endless jargon and data to convince you otherwise…