Apostolic, you flock, even frolic to your diabolic, vitriolic Moloch but end up melancholic
No compensation, small consolation in predation, as elevation by subjugation changes not your destination
Can’t go far because your lodestar’s the Death Star, your god a wannabe czar, leaving you as the dog
who caught the car
Garrett Snedaker
This article appears in Enter the Papaya Lounge.