IS THIS THE ANSWER?
As we enter to what is essentially the last phase of our Chromosomal-telomere quota of flesh-blood existence [excluding prematurely succumbing to freaks of nature {full spectrum inclusion of non-human}& human intervention {accident or otherwise}] one might contemplate, more so maybe than otherwise, but contemplate past, present, and future [emphasis on the `future’ contemplation] rendering such thoughts as the following: WARNING: this is not as morbid as the illustration suggests
Withering and dying, this body slowly degenerating to its ultimate demise, to for-ever be lost to this world, that evidence of its presence to future generations knowing, be forever obliterated as to not have existed at all. If into Nothing our Being ultimately goes, for what reason does it exist in the first place? What Legacy proof be created to harvest a permanence of presence on this evolving, revolving planet Earth? Does the answer lie in the presence of the Cemetery wherein fields of granite, limestone, and other material of aging permanence serve as concrete evidence, witness proof to the Lives that once held prominence and footing on the hallow ground to this perceived existence? That only by Death’s relinquishing of the captured Soul, Life’s energy force fueling existence, does Truth to a Knowing, ultimately become solved. Or does the answer ultimately lie elsewhere; beyond this reality’s need for comprehension?
It was meant to reflect his mastery of satirical yet, poetic, right-wing political punditry to rival the rhetorical eloquence of Shakespeare. It certainly seemed relevant for the time.
naykdpoet 
Thoughts De jour
Tags: art, books, commentary, computer, content, fun, Internet, life, relationships
Nights Spent:
Like roaches that feed in the void of light; hiding their machinations from morality’s sight; to garner the lust of debauchery’s delight; filled with feelings contrite; displacing rancor with blithe; to find refuge in other’s fright, so go the hours spent by night.
Field of Dreams:
Blazoned upon open fields of trails; foot passages that hide deviant tales; trodden by exploits where wanton lust prevails; greed for pleasure hard to curtail; a place, ethical prohibitions are destined to fail.
Bathhouse:
Through dim-lite corridors, naked men parade; each lost to their own charade; to orgasm of pleasure, they’ve become the slave; for it, their moral soul to trade; open doors, engorged lust wantonly displayed; stale sweat, spent cum pervade; pheromonal triggers waff and cascade; driven to frenzy, driven to engage.
Creative Block:
Cloistered in a humble room of mindless imagination; spawned from germ of discontent; survived by the fruit of constant failure; striving toward ill-conceived ambitions; thwarted by the causation of reason; hopeless to gains of promise; foments realization to threat of survival.
Book:
Brandishing tool of eloquence; striving to be creative and communicative of mind, thought toward their realization of meaning; embodied in time, the measured vehicle of distributed reason; unencumbered by resistance of ridicule; saved for perpetual salvation of archival history.
Comments Are Much Appreciate: (consider them a author’s reward)
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