[My ranting, though opinionated, teaches & proves nothing.] -But it does support the above statement, for irritation's sake.- Thoughts of chaos take hold, sizzle and churn, before leaving me to conclude that a plague exists within the ancient art of metaphor, which has no place here, in the greenery of Amazonian hearts, within fluid substance born of their ethereal bodies, forming shimmering scarlet rivers that fuel the soul-- further forging its wild essence. It's character is akin to bloody-rusted scalpels, embodied as a dreary eyed mortician: His attire specially tailored to facilitate the apathetic-but-proper disposal of the soul, executed with a firm, blank expression engraved upon his fleshy face, the skin seemingly made of beaten leather. The over-all effect is quite unforgiving, a product of sponsored ignorance. His charcoal boots meticulously deep-shined so that if one dared they could look upon the bleak surface, and admire their clear, cold ebony reflection-- though most are troubled by the ghastly, sinister image that stares back. Of course he means well, but that perhaps is the best sheep's clothing can offer his conscience. His words rob meaning of purity, like a rapist who rips into flesh, disgracing young women by breaching their virginal walls, indulging in that forsaken Eden that lays glistening before depositing his greasy semen-- cursed seed carrying his frustration, angst, and lust, relieving him of the filthy burden, properly disposed, spilt upon her chasms' ravaged soil. Oblivious to his actions or simply apathetic, he feels secure, convinced that his existence is righteous. He is but a means to adhere and conform to a standard of comprehension that differs still-- because the dead have a face, a symbol that continues to change, distorting knowledge, while also communicating that which is vaguely assumed, with a cipher we rarely, if ever, understand. An enemy to children who adore forbidden fruit, savoring the juice that lingers on the lips of their mothers to soften the steel grip of their fathers keen fury. He takes mind, spirit, and gives it a fallacious shape, concealed by the shadow of applied cloth; in matters of death he endeavors to keep the soul, a beings essence, secret in response to fear. His kind is not worthy of respect, though he believes he himself is a tragic poet, unappreciated for his somber words-- always insisting that it is our folly that causes him to appear morbid. Poets that are true and pure in ability understand that death is but an illusion-- that is why they are the ones who give clarity to the tempestuous birth cries of thought, spirit, emotion, mind, and body. They revel in the tragedy and virtue of being exposed anew in the nude. They view the experience for what it is, unraveling its consequential twisted path, reaching for the undefined object of its purpose, so that they may achieve the perfection of their ever-changing, chaos bound, mournfully incomplete conclusion. Also, whether openly or in reclusion, they value the fruit that spouted out of their errors. _________________________________________________________________________ Those who have never been lost, never walked their own path-- As cowards, they decided to remain imprisoned.