Incineration of soul with antagonism often
credits the incredible insufficiency of my material sociability. Sometimes, it’s
really hard to survive the inessentiality of a stupid “mob” especially when you
know incongruous codes of their guises and play. They are all self-trained thespians of a
floating opera; a masquerade enacted for material gratifications. Their
lineaments are of folly and their masks are of self-declaring clowns of self-mockery.
Polluted smiles from their hollow façade
crucify my existential credos on the 'altar of "Frailty"', what 'he' once called. It is true that a dead fly causes the ointment
of the apothecary to send forth a stinking smell.
Comments
Post a Comment