A parasite lurks among us.
A parasite not visible at first, for it keeps itself hidden.
It holds a form similar to us, but foreign all of its own.
Yet it insists it is of us, one of us, and belonging to us.
It lingers behind those who work hard so it might too appear to be one in the same.
And while others work, it will be the first to quench its thirst and appease its hunger, with no consideration of what it leaves behind for those who toil and labour.
It hides behind what conflict it can make, and what insecurities and uncertainties it can rouse and prop up from imagination or otherwise.
It makes weapons from others who have no business being involved, yet are forced into the fray for promises of all that others have, and all those others gain from allowing outsiders into their midst.
And when the parasite grows in power, it grows more bold. Moving from the shadows to the light to boast of itself and feed its own ego.
But at the first sign of trouble, when its power might be questioned, it flees with all it has gained to new pastures, to begin its cycle anew. What is left behind is a broken, shattered and dejected shell of it what once was.
That which cannot be fixed or repaired without the use of the sword, of fire, or war.
And yet, the parasite lives.
For all the division it sows, and confusion it cedes among its victims, there can only ever be a limit.
And all at once, the sword, the fire, the war, all of these will continue from those who make new what was shattered and destroyed.
For the parasite looks like us, and tries to show it is home among us, but this is all a façade.
And all of these things will be used to seek out the parasite and all of its kind, and without mercy, and with perfectly just action, the parasite will be called to account, and its words will be answered not with ears or greedy hands, but with the sword, the fire, and a spirit of war made dormant but now enraged.
As it was, as it will be.
And the parasite will find itself as being, no more.