Epode Of A Failing Epoch

Prose Exploring Cyclical Turbulence

Humbled to speak and humbled so deep, for what reason do you underplay and bumble your speech. There are moments of dread and moments of comfort, but now comes a moment of vultures and cowards.

There is a storm, deep tempest engulfing, it hits us slowly, its eye just showing. From pain and sorrow, we tell ourselves, we’ve been maltreated, who demands amends?

But what sorrow when you infect yourself with a lightning bolt of self-defect. Blaming those others, those unrighteous cannibals, of how you project, of your mirror’s reflection.

Hypocrisy reigns, in time they test, they become sharpened swords in lies unrest. To know is to die slowly inside, O as our vulnerable hearts can’t take these ends. To think you know different is death confrontation, confirmation, warped in contortions, of rage immolation, you’ll burn for this mistake.

Those vultures of regression, eating their own corroded corpses, of their diseased threads they suture their culture and hope to seal their picturesque enclosures.

To what end do we make ourselves sick, do we nurture into our own insecurities? To what end do we voluntarily dance with Satan and call it Heaven, to what end do we not move for transcendence as it calls our name? Our shadow, it grins, as it smashes our brains.

Tartarus is looming, always ready for Spirits demise, but even Hades wouldn’t laugh at such flawed and destructive benevolence, what pitiful cries. What a great opportunity, no? For, do we blame life or the fates for having made us victims of an intellectual disaster? Do you know everything, do you doubt?

What’s coming is a clash the likes we’ve seen, nothing new in ancient sins. A repeat of cycles in unchecked corruption, a play that goes and repeats in scenes. There is a clash; always a clash and the violence in its catastrophic strophe seem gentle in their wake, its antistrophe, but the end comes swiftly thereafter, that epode of a failing epoch.

The self-righteous crock, of myself I identify and contend the same, we see a boot and its matching frock, in their chosen theory, we all blindly flock, but yet miss the other and its many accessories. All plenty in stock.

We have abandoned evil thought, we have become benevolent ideals, how can we know what we’ve wrought, us destroyer of worlds.

We don’t want to believe we are evil, we don’t want to see our monsters, we don’t meet Death halfway, and pretend those others are the enemy when in yourself, you hide your true face. It’s good against good, and you’ve never been evil?

I’m a coward on the path to eternal damnation, but I will not meet Moirai without having sacrificed and pushed, and of my fate, I’ll have tilled before my soul is forever cast out, and in its wake, I will be outcast.

Thanks for reading Ilija Begic