Clothed in finery and enigmas, they claim to be the architects to our evolution.
Fallacies and riddles, sung in tunes of a proclivity that serenades paradise.
Embroiled by chaos, consumed with lust.
They feed and hunger until all that’s left is baron.
Yet ever the vulture, they search for fresh carrion,
Not content until they suck at the marrow.
The grand illusion of voracity is the never-ending thirst to chase that which is in front of us.
A base instinct to latch onto an entitlement not earned.
Bereft of purity the toxic clouds swirl about us.
Dancing to an end, ticking closer to the chime.
It has all happened before, and yet it has not.
The wheel will clock another turn.
The tale will tell another act.
Are we the afterthought to a higher game?
Or can we orchestrate our own fate to break the cycle?
A poem by Furrion