Poetic Mathematics of Mankind: 7

Note: What follows is a part of a 10-post poetic commentary on mankind's devolution (posts on our evolution begin here and are similarly titled in the archives.)

Never were there
Harsher times than these
Every woe in every wound
Pummels us to the dust
Still they cling to faith

And the mystics,
Charlatans who shout and scream
of portents that we have sinned
Not a word of it makes any sense
At all to me

How can you see the sanctified in this muck,
Or the holy in this disease?
Nay, I walk my own path,
I make my own creed,
I proclaim to no god
And no god proclaims to me

I lived my life as I knew it
And if all is falling down around us,
Then I will sink with my empire
I’d rather be a relic revered
Than a miser of a bygone era
I’d rather fight to the death
Than lay down arms in surrender

So let us march to Armageddon
With our heads held high
For there is no law higher than ours
And we represent the only truth
There ever was.

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