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Small Particles of Human Dust


The mouth of the good soldier, the stern jaw of the general, the small particles of human dust that move between them- better things than war to the rotten film of floating flesh.

The bastard truth, in its last throes, had no teeth to gnaw at death to release its harrowed grip and deceit had honed its razors slicing truth to its mortal nub, veracity fell out the bloody center uncorking the gushing liquid now thickly oozing out of man.

This that moves us and machine is what drives the engine of betrayal.
It is not man. It is not beast. It is not breath. At birth we suckle its oily nipple until we desire it more than food, this, our liquid birth of machinery.

It is with that in mind and nothing else that the stern jawed general let loose his guns. With precision, from years of training, he nailed his target, truth, between the eyes and it fell back calling out a futile "help," but rescue would not be forthcoming, it too had been felled.

Death stands now before them both and places his fluttering lips close, “Come. Join me now. You shall see the horror within the mortal’s eyes when, in the dark, you greet them.”

© 2012 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime

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