As I watch, weeping, I see souls wrestle in the trough, lapping tongues pull up the fibers of their life; torments of past and conscience never relent or release burdens, vanities, or betrayals ensconced. Incubi and succubi ply the high minded id and ego towards strife. Incense nor candles profit the man who will not consent to quietude nor solemnity nor the peace of humility. A quiet table, feasting, though... waiting... offers reality.
Discussion about this post
No posts