Somewhere along the plane, in the rain, the world changed The worm that worries is not man, but the devils hands as we dye and he lives (worries about his command) Weep when you can, wish in a world that is as inhuman as the wind (it will do you little good) But like the moon, the jackals are here to stay, stay I say, as we dye and they live (for another day) That is simply how it is, as we walk the ridge of life A ghost of a king he is, the king of shadows, jackals...
As he witlessly walks and talks, and bellows about, the author of hunting the soul, like a pacing reptile His fingers jabbing at our fleshful joys, then he flees like a bee, to sting again, another (for the simple joy of it) 1/21/2007 #1630 Note:it seems we too often give the demons and the devils too much credit for the evil we do; for the finger jabbing that they don't do, for the whispers in the ears they never made; yes we have to take a little responsibility for our venial sins, and not let the ghost worldclaim such influence over us.
We have a nature that should get some of the credit, and it is often times habits, self-interest, pretense, greed that dominates our fiber (all mixed into human nature): Satan need not even be around, should he know, human nature is doing the job for him.
It is when it isn't, he steps forward, to trigger it back into automatic.