The Rotting Garden
Abounding all around, pride and fear.
Together they intermingle like webs in a rotting garden, catching all who dwell there. Well-medicated peasants dwell in this garden, ignoring webs that debilitate and harm. The result is a dripping canvas called chaos. Enslaved, angry peasants love chaos, and so they add to it by stirring up war. Entangled, proud peasants also love tenebrosity, so they block out the sun. Lovers of death, they scoff at cool, fresh springs untainted by the grimy ash which covers their concrete kingdoms. Kingdoms with kings covered in layers of grungy browns, tell-tale signs of their digital war, infant genocide, and masquerade of independence. It is as I said, they love death.
Their foundation is a decoupaged quilt of tissue paper, colorful but useless. Houses where judges once stood were refurbished into dance halls decorated with disco balls. An ironic globe constructed from mirrors that once reflected the truth. But the reflection of truth unbridled burns jaded eyes. Bent on self-preservation, they smashed Truth into little pieces. Better a decoration than a judge. Quite content, these diamond-hearted, masked fools celebrate under the mirrored ball while serving up a daily dose of rose gold candy floss on silver spikes, atop gilded platters. Try as they might, their bedazzled world remains a rotting garden, their kingdoms a mirage of glory, and their end, well, even the stars above observe this bizarre scene and know.
As suns and moons make revolutions far and wide, they whisper across the expanse, “What strange creatures these shallow, malnourished, peasant kings are. Why do they drink from putrid wells lined with maggots? Why do they dance in blood-soiled rags? Why do they celebrate their treasuries of rubbish? Do they not realize their fragile frames are not long for the empires of ants and worms? Do they not see THE better Way? Truly, truly, what strange creatures peasants are.”
But AirPods succeed in blocking out the questions from the hosts above. Proud and afraid, they refuse to fathom what creation knows. The lie is more palatable, and so while starry hosts cringe at the sight, they pretend and let their anthem echo into the ether, “I am god, let me be free, let me do me.”
They love chaos
They love tenebrosity
They love death
We are they.
