Monday, November 23, 2009

625. DEAD MAN, DEAD MAN

DEAD MAN, DEAD MAN
Some sort of venture this is : malformed like
a tweak-hammer, crippled like a broken bird.
The fiery wind, I notice now, is ripping the
roof shingles apart; no wonder all that noise.
How many times has one wished for silence and
a peacefulness that never comes? The low sky
is a simple tremor. It skims the land and tires
of tearing never - like thorns in the side of a
steed, the sting only momentarily slows us down.
Insufferable as we are, we barrel past each obstacle
in our way. Bellowing loudly 'Straight is the way of
God!' - even as we hear the little voice within saying:
'But there is a tree ahead of us!' or then 'There
is a wall in front of us!' and finally 'We can go
no farther! The way is blocked!' Only again does
that voice say - 'Straight is the way of the Lord!
Let us forge on to where no obstacle blocks!'
Blind faith. A stupid nullity. The true belief of
the dolt. Perhaps we are just too stupid to
realize the inundation of the nothing
under which we are drowning.

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