Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Feeding on all.

Were it not for the fact that life is simple, users, usurpers and vultures of all kinds would have nothing with which to act.

But of course, the nature of the parasite is just that, a nature which must be fed at any cost.

Only in a world where blood must be mixed, shared history shunned, and the knowing of what’s right though ten thousand generations of experience or more is open for question by those who understand it not, nor participate in their lives or those of their forebears, only then will collapse be assured.

Only then can a vulture, a user, a parasite of flesh, blood and spirit, find a home among those who would tolerate not those acts or thoughts.

But you see, in the confusion of all that is, in the moments where all must make sense for all else is built upon the ever progressing march, none are encouraged to look back.

None know what step was made first, nor why, nor where that step was headed.

All that matters now is that the journey is being led by those who are carried, who are the burden and not the salvation of such as they might claim.

The waters are muddied, the smoke fills the air. The veil of time kept fast, and the world around it dies.

For the parasites are stuck in one world, unable to ever leave. They care not if the world falls to ruin, not for its destruction by fire or hand of God.

They care only that they may feed. That they rule the feast.

But all feasts end in time.


3 thoughts on “Feeding on all.”

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