Burned long ago by the fire of future, what was is no longer.
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.
Upon the winds comes a message, not by echoes, calls or horns. A message in a language lost by those who themselves grow separate from nature itself.
The world has turned to a sad state of affairs.
Perversions are the order of the day,
Lives filtered through the lens of a lens with opinion and undue certainty mixed in.
Hardly a scrap of truth is recognized the world over anymore,
For truth has become objective views of certainty.
The wind started to pick up in the early afternoon. The sky was red at dawn, so I hastily finished all I had needed to in that day.