Hypocrisy and Masturbation
The deeper we hop, swim, even dive in the abyss of wonder, to wander which is tantamount to the desecration of being human, not necessarily a rational animal but curious living creature, the more we let go of blush from our face that partially reflects how we can be brittle despite becoming malleable and truly dynamic, an adaptation, an effect of colonialism.
We become obsessed of what we can say and preach nonetheless forgotten to think and accept that not all is chosen to be the temple from which His divinity will oscillate to the benefit of those ears that learned to digest what not of this world but that manna originating from His grace.
We are impregnated of two realities asexually that we tend to be numb as we become the fetus, the mother, the slave of obscenity of which we take leisure of. We never dare to wake up or even twink an eye with the fear, worse, the pleasure of machinist wanting as heroes, forced to play a role opposite that which was written.
Our dilemma has no holes but thorns that prick our fate threaded from malicious faith we treasure, and offer, to our temple where idols blossoms like weeds that masturbate our insanity that we never really intended to ejaculate but so many a thought that sprang out of it that we never managed to contain therefore it bursts as poison within.
But the father of this world never rest to adulterate and create the pagan state from which he finds possession of life that never really his, followers that blindly lead by a blind, a fool’s gold anonymity.
Until, The Voice reverberated to the walls of lead, that obstructs the sense which was long and overdue almost forfeited, we found a hole from which we took a deep breath we came and freshen our humid mind.