Orat Zeppelin I (a man in hieroglyphs)

A demon dreams me: ideal – direction learned from nature
And innate in application to the struggle of the upward pull,
The more fool me; the tools from which the mind descends
To bend our will to power. You are an instrument, and you
Are also its execution; danse by means of which the flesh
Connects, a bond dissolves: a boy becomes his lather’s biting
Pride, his blade’s most prized affection as it calls for hunger
First, is sated later. The logical progression to how lonely this
Could get, how lucky we would be if we were men of faith,
Creatures of disguising habit; misleading and distrusting of
The hand that stretches in, reaches meaning to exact its cold
Revenge. Drink upon me every memory of mud and budding
Youth, impulse taking root, conscience breaking even – to a
Man made sure of his word it’s reason more than enough to
Speak up, become: the symbol of the Word he holds back.


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