A SOULS STRUGGLE TO LIVE
by Shawn Malzahn
"A Souls Struggle to Live"
Stare deep into my eyes and perhaps you'll have clear vision to truly see, the sorrows of a lost Soul, a sincere seeker in search of the secret to Immortality. The pain of Life's game may leave the Will to Live mirroring a droplet of water, dangling lowly from the base of a rotting thread, suspended high above the Universal Abyss, ready to plunge off into Oblivion at the slightest surge of suffering's wind. Yet not wanting to leave the Wake of Pain behind our abandoned ship, we half-heartedly hold on to Hope by the fearful fingertips of shame, guilt, and doubt, only to have our knuckles pecked by the Ravenous Vultures of our Species whom with Herculean Hunger feverishly feed on our kindness. Never quenched, these Deranged Daemons sip our Souls down the funnels of their foul-speaking throats, filling the bellies of their blasphemous being, selfishly ignorant as to what it is that they do. They cease not the Thousand Stings of Death as if dangerously dealt by a fleet of warmongering wasps, drunk from the angry pain of a perceived purposeless existence, haunted by the hounds of their heedless heads, plagued by the phantoms of their conditionally clouded cognition, finally forsaken by the Frankenstein's of their own mind's creation. How unfortunate indeed it is to be the orange mashed between the palms of Good and Evil Dwellers, leaking life on top the Table of Time, absorbed within the grain of the Grueling Grind for the Termites of Humanity to gluttonously gorge on. Such an Ass we've been! Mindlessly moving forward toward the Carrots of Pleasure strung up by Desire to the far-reaching Stick of Sensuality strapped to our broken backs. Foolishly we frolic amidst the Prairie of Swords and Daggers under the radiant sun of burning Lust and Hatred. Eternally layered, we soldier on baring the marks of bumps, boils, bruises, blisters, bites, and broken bones, painstakingly painting the war-torn terrain with an endless trail of blood, mucus, sweat, tears, urine, puss, and feces, stretched out in all directions, covering the span of Infinity plus One, soaking up the Acid Rain of Polluted Personalities, choking on the Smog of Toxic Views while sneezing from the Allergy of Irrationality and Egotism. Pathetic little balloons they are! With chests puffed up and heads inflates, tethered to the Compassionate Ones by a string of duty to serve the Afflicted lest they be released to rot in their own filth, popped by the pressure of their own selfish assent, never truly aware how blessed they are that such Sympathetic Souls should even exist. Thus continuing to consume and cripple the constructions of the creative, they slowly snub the will's of those pursuing the Righteous Path of Few. Damn them all to the Lowest of the Lowly Regions comparable to the corruption they have contributed to our kind! Damn them all for stretching our minds beyond the Earth's Equator! Yet BLESS THEM ALL for forcing us to think beyond Worldly Affairs by bringing us to the brink of self-destruction where we finally lay still enough to contemplate the Great Escape and its Pious Path, wondering whether or not the Damnation we seek to impose upon others has not already been imparted upon ourselves, thus casting the Curse of an Excruciating Existence comparable to the corruption we ourselves have contributed to the world at large, for perhaps we ourselves are he biggest Vulture of them all.
