Decay

Is it any wonder, the state of decay? Odiferous clouds of chaos bloom like poisoned, kaleidoscopic poppies. Pains suffered in childhood become agonies of the soul through the autumn of adulthood. Perhaps we can hold the man accountable; the self-sufficient architect of progress and perdition. Perhaps the woman is to blame? The silky, sweet seductress is seldom satiated, suddenly suspicious. Perhaps it is the company; the taskmasters of the golden age, relentless and repressing, compelling and condemning. Decay. How should we then live? Our pleasures are bought for a penny, sold for a pound. Can we condone the conservation of our righteous consciousness when justice is oppression and truth becomes conditional? Or have we, as the song says, “become comfortably numb?”