Uncloaked
The opinionated folk deems his self more worthy than the next, more educated, more correct, more substantiated in his tethered-viewings. He is the man who ties himself to his beliefs as marionette to the puppeteer. Surrendering his last performance for the making of a hopeful sequel.
He stands on the cornerstone of his own reality, perched on a soapbox made of rubbery-soles; erect in his being, creating hurts, as he plucks out the feathers from those deemed ‘wrong.’
He is the judge. And his seasoned-eyes seek out justice for self, and for self-proclaimed truths.
He creates chaos through the subconscious quest to establish an enemy in order to make himself the victor.
He seeks out that which is wrong to feed his own tattered ego.
The more he builds himself up, the more he merrily tears the others downward into spiraling nonsense.
He latches on to one truth, and then another, exchanging viewpoints to suit his individual needs. Adapting his ways to suit his desired outcome.
He eradicates plans and schemes, even as he sees this not as so.
He is blind to his own ways, and thinks himself clever and keen.
He has an eye for truth, and establishes his world as so. Truth begets truth and all else in dangerous makings of others’ minds.
He knows himself, inside and out, or so he thinketh . And in thinking in limited scope, he believes he sees the world about him endlessly.
He is the maker of mankind and the destroyer, and he sets himself on high while wearing a robe of futile-humility. Though, buried beneath the cloakings are the mere wobblings of brittle bones.
He erects flags of righteousness in his name.
He is the enemy of spirit, as he claims his views worthy and right.
He is the enemy of self, as he hides in the shadowed sands, head buried to the reality undone.
He builds and builds an illusion in order to feed and feed that which is established upon as self onto self.
He becomes that which he wishes, and has opinion for all that does not fit into his gently spawned parchment.
His arrows are as ink on treasure map, pointing thusly to where the answers rest.
He knows, and he knows naught, and in so doing he believes he is the wisest of wise.
He layers himself in the latherings of riches, sought in the grounds of others’ burdens.
He is neither miser of gold nor pauper of the trenches; instead he is both. Combined, as the one collecting and discarding. Scooping up in ‘veracious’ heaps that which serves his truth, and throwing out that which does not.
He cannot see his weary ways, and instead labels the rest unjust and wrong, except the select few that follow his way. His light shone bright in the ability to feasibly proclaim his truth as collective truth.
He is not satisfied unless others see him, others hear him, others lift him and validate his existence.
His way is made the only way. And the others, though innocent they be, gather around him as sucklings to his tainted nectar.
He nourishes them with lies—his own.
He lures them in with a sense of belonging. And then, too, they become as him: stagnant in their youth, nurturing nothing and no one, and taking as they please.
They satisfy self to please self. They play with self to please self. They collect and establish more truths.
Until the beggar returns—uncloaked—he is made burdened with entrapment; invisible, trumpeting his drum. Pounding out the horned owl’s screech. Demolishing what is, in hopes of fissuring all that is the entrapment of mankind.
Formidable-forbidding. A lingering, unsurpassed longing, to surrender his making for the unmasking of the man beneath the cloaked resilience.
Belly of a Star 