Andrew Dearborn

The Vain in Virtue

This contract discloses my final moments. What is a world, with turmoil furnished by the edicts of man? Their temerity to uphold such a corrupt cause, and still find the words to say all is blessed and exhume a hope for peace that is past its six-foot internment. I find nothing but fault in the “perfections” of law, I feel nothing but a wave of somber in the artificial faces of joyous reunion. For you all are blind to the reality of your being; The feeling of freedom is laconic, yet you riddle words to find the socket to the secrets of life where there be no key; Instead of just let it be, you tamper, with no rhyme or reason to your sound, only austere aggression in its’ melody as you kick those doors down. Now, you stare blindly in the face of madness governed by crosses, stars, and bleeding hearts, the symbol of mans’ primal infidelity; To rake over the pining, with false promises, accompanied by the stabbing of your virulent, theistic hypnosis; Thus you have created an army, you have made many in the image of that which forbid you from it; Beguiling thousands into something ephemeron. Look at the world before you, you are what you create; You fear hell but you’ve made disciples out of pawns that will spread sickness and it shall repeat over and over again; Hell is repetition, and it is something you have created beneath your feet, so let them be swept by the speaking-mirror I hold before your court. For time to make change, it first needs to be reset ; Lead those people to the river of Lethe, and let them forget. I decamp from this earth, on which you all have become a cist, I worry no longer, for my life here will not persist.