Trapped
in a purgatory of their own conceit…
“The top of the pyramid – the
organization is composed of Technologists who only pretend to have power,
although they are only actors in the theater of mirrors. When the mirror is broken they die, because
the internal drive of their actions vanishes.”
– Svetislav Basara, The Cyclist
Conspiracy Trapped in a purgatory
of
their own conceit…
The web of lies they weave
gets
tighter and tighter
in
its deceit
until
it bottoms out -
at
a very low frequency -
and
implodes.
It may be just a matter of perception –
they
can’t undo their wrongs
for
fear it’d undermine their
perceived
authority –
an
authority they think they require
to
stay in charge.
Yet all the while,
the
more they talk,
the
more they lie,
and
the deeper down the hole they go.
There’s nothing I need to go back to -
nothing
to re-litigate -
nothing
to defend -
and
certainly nothing to prove
to
the unworthy.
Just wait…
Sonnet
There are no wind-blown rumors, soft say-sos,
No garden-whispered hearsays, lightly heard,
I know that summer never spares the rose,
That spring is faithless to the brightest bird.
I know that nothing lovely shall prevail
To win from Time and Death a moment’s grace;
At Beauty’s birth the scythe was honed, the nail
Dipped for her hands, the cowl clipped for her face.
And yet I cannot think that this my faith,
My winged joy, my pride, my utmost mirth,
Centered in you, shall ever taste of death,
Or perish from the false, forgetting earth.
You are with time, as wind and weather are,
As is the sun, and every nailed star.
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