I: Winning at Solitaire
I put nothing on a pedestal. Nothing stands as an idol, and to nothingness I am betrothed. I work best in oblivion. Here, I can only best myself. Isn’t self-education half the battle when war’s at hand? You know nothing of my journey, remove your selfish tacks from the map. Let the damned thing fall off of the wall [it holds better conversation when left unmasked.]
One of these days your escapades will come back to haunt you. Don’t come crying to me when the wellness well runs dry. Take that shot in the ass like a champ, sex scoundrel.
II: Cunning Cohorts
Polo [blue] pedestrian punks swallow scorched pride and let the tincture do the talking. Forge your finest salute for the commander of popped-collars and terrible tactics; alas, fair vandal! Your intentions are showing. Quickly hide the exit to your costume or the spectators will catch on [they already grew eyes in the backs of their heads, and they’re working on lips.] I didn’t mean to address your tough luck; I meant you were a failure. You get an F in eloquence, so stitch that on your breast pocket and flaunt inadequacy.
III: In Advent of the Angel’s Arrival
The calm before the storm won’t accept its own silence. The eyeless vandals vanish. The scenery holds back color, preserving brilliance. Vehement clouds the color of unconsciousness give way to the graceful demon’s descent. Sanctity’s soldier waves good-bye to the comfort of clarity; now marks the entry of contradiction. Systems aren’t oll korrect, but the pistons pump plenty. Scream with me: “Oil! Oil!” It’s no use, the Standards Corps are out on furlough. I guess I’m playing this one by ear.
IV: Re-Becoming
Let this be a testimony to solid will. Two years short of two decades and I was still breathing. It’s not fear of friction or a striving for solitude that kept me in this place. This is where you stomach your assumptions and grasp the maximization of purity. This is the part where you realize I am the pedestal, and rather particular as to with whom I share this glorious view. The sky is vast. The air is as clear as I’m making myself. Common sense tells me you’d be able to see through me at this point.
Comrade, I’m not so transparent.
