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Those Of The Machine Get Fed to the Gaping Hole, a Whole which is Gaping The Soul Which Spillith Out and The Body Which Runnith Dry | A Written Art Piece

The voices of the ancients speak the natures of the voices unspoken and unseen . . . the obscene, the unspoken the unvoiced the unconvenced nature of those privy of the ways to win through natural selection . . . the gods inspection have seen and chosen those worthy of the passing of the torches to the next generation . . . a natural selection of man . . . a plan of the spirit of nature . . . a benevolence. The bleeding passion of those past their time but look on to see that youth passes in time with a sustenance of glowing life in their prime. For we know that this sweet essence of time is not for all time, nor ever lasting , nor should it be.

The gods have sliced the spines of their hundreds of disposed bodies to make from the pieces childlike angels. These mature into man from consumption of the flesh, the bodies alive eaten as sacrificed matter. The relevance of our lives to those of which actually lived without the suffocation of the choking chain that is the beast corporate is at a none-sum. The crazed lives we lead living for other, the other, and the other, none of which are us or our making of kind, our tribe fed by our tribulation. Flesh fed of our withering flesh, happiness bred from out mental madness. The idea of life is corrupted by the mechanism of the big machine, wide with its gaping mouth sucking in souls as if fodder . . . as if a hog eating refuge . . . what does that make of those unfortunate souls?

In the apocalypse of bodies, a bounty of crushed soul, the spirits run dry and the bodies burn, become soot, and coal for the pyre of the next chosen few, those made to control the rhythm and create the songs of the next life. Hopefully there will be a home for those in the next life to take the fire charged from the bodies of the dead, the ancients to light their torches and provide on to those living next . . . the cycle of the used souls go on . . . the building is an ever spinning circle, an inexact mirror of how the planets in space circle each other in symphony, thus is the same way man cycles during each generation to build a slight amount more. There will be grace before too long and a great monument, this at least before the last blink of the last eyes and these things are all over, this for those having the time and grace to enjoy it. At least they will see immaculate beauty in true to life detail.

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