If only we, the little people of the Burden, lost in a plethora of worthless lives,
Could look into the self and its eternal gaze, ablaze, with the mosnstrosity of the Abyss.
And accept, that monstrosity, of the inner-most self, for what it is...
that part of ourselves, that we make war with, in the name, of hippocrite morality.
That sense of shame, wearing a white robe, and grinning with black teeth,
at the altar of wholsome values, the code of slaves and peasants, the prayer... of the dying.
Maybe we, could stop living, by our calculators, and sail on the wings of the will...
Dwelling in the heart, leaving the slave gods in the wind, shells and dust.
The illusions and their sorrows, the opinions of our neighbors, and the masses-
So often confused, with reality, and the will dies as the lie, of right and wrong is paid for.