Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

A wasted place.

What a waste of a world to wander. One lost within the dreams of all those who seek more than what they have by any means they may.

What horrid sights are those who would deny and defy the order of things as they have been for as long as time recalls.

How decayed the flesh of life in those who would turn against their forebears and grant the credit for their works and suffering to strangers who demand without payment and seek respect without the need or desire to earn.

It is a world of decay which comes from all these things, where blood matters not and folk are to be turned away for being of the same kin.

Would it so please the new Gods of lesser men to see them prostrate and castrate themselves upon the altar in which all else must be sacrificed.

That shame and not pride is what must be sought. That shame should be the greatest tenet of a dead world’s faith.

Is it a world in shambles.

The wolves being led by sheep who wear the mask of lions and proclaim that the eating of grass, not lamb is the natural order.

The trees protrude from once fertile soil, bare and dried husks, as bones of the world jutting from soil. Whether as a hand reaching to the heavens for help, or the malnourished breast of nature laying where it took its final gasp.

There is more life to a lie than there is to a truth. For one will live on in the words of those who lust for power, the other is carefully recorded to warn and teach.

What a wasted world once wandered.

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