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Analogy as an Elegy

the year re-nude, the world renewed as the ghouls are cast to the burning shadows to suffer as they ever expected to in these dark visions enlightened by hope and a kindness flying out of the human soul as a phoenix from the ashes of this civilized mask under pseudonym ‘fake-it-till-you-make-it’ as a competitive urge, and try as they might you cannot let others convince you that they have your best interests in mind because they are not you as to even begin understanding how it can be that anyone is capable of thinking that any other human being can be understood with absolute clarity is only fooling themselves into thinking these things certain, and yet these cracks are now showing themselves as contradictions of theory put into practice as more methods added to the madness swirling confusion into a deeper embedded tragic sum of parts but gracelessly shuffling with a tag of sadness at our heels… screaming bloody murder silently as the matter dulls the sounds of that haunted taunting from within mingling with a few ghosts of your own friends as aspects to your dream that never end even if you do, there are more than horrible things that the imagination can summon to frighten a specter out of you so that you run babbling trying to convince everyone of the end about to come as a dirge waiting to be sung in low mournful tones for regret of not knowing the comparable love for all in contrast to the love of self, but each of these must be cultivated if we are to ever feel we know anything more than this kind of a stagnant reality manufactured to meet all the needs of the people like greeting cards wishing a good ‘get well’ to the bearer who is to feel this need upon receiving said gift… the whining and complaining just adds more to the spinning wheel divine as placed to divide and drive us each to our own fortunes for some sooner than later but no less richer for the effort provoked into being because it is you that says so whether the others believe they have a right in casting you out, or if you think it is the cost of a good life to reject almost anything that could prevent the attitude of pleasure without hesitating to stop and think about the situation evenly with equal regard for each mood as they are able to move through you to extrapolate those swooning epic feelings that enchant the moment you might think you can hide but why, with a human discretion contrasting this affair at the hub of vapid discussion that every day can there be enough time for you to stop bitching about my poetry?…

Thanks, khet.