The Little Men

by Michaelw1two Inspired by the word works of Rian Giddings This mentality, simply the reality, of our own personal principals; whose nationality, worn by brutality, forged from personalities borne; into this fulminating propagation. Forged from 10,000 generations, blood, sweat, tears, and so much death; repression’s sins, tastes sweet to those, who care not of the little men's toes; thereto which witch, watches whose nose? The little men, poison dwarfs or kings, inaudible frequency, freed fancies or freaks; fleas, or flies, or minced meat of many yenchs, some succubae, sent from god fearing tweaks; bitterness left untouched, ‘their’ pique, life’s treats. Foreign this concept, of whispered thoughts, enhancing minds and moving mouths; beings doing much, never to accomplish, enough of anything comparable to one’s worth’s; handily ply favour, within idle minds dark wishes. Embody any rabble-rouser's raucous pledges, men who assail the illogical, unfathomable, indefinite; all means, less than nothing, in the schema of minds, the venality thrice plied, that bellows brightest; for reasons commended, to the palace of plausibility. Aah, the slaughter of more imaginings, only ashes remain, the din of half-hearted men; who do as they are told, even when it costs, a life, a limb, or absolute destruction of their kin; swoon over the simplicities, afforded by great fortune. Massed ideas, swallow whole, and then assimilate their fortitude, and this for the greater good, for all of humankind; is this a lie, or a truth that is worth your life, whispering little men, know better well this is truth; believe what was told before, this yet beckons all. Broken song, this lowly dirge a dissonance perfumed, by one since freed, by consciousness of conscience. Michael Darrell Walker