Encapsulated within a smog defiled by fools’ pride. Heedlessness drives these currents and streams of emotional leakages spilling, clogging, boiling and infusing everything else around with soil. Dense and trapping, there’s little room of relief. All purities lost and forgotten, traded for taboos.

Insidious is its prying and penetrative attempts to overwhelm and consume, there’s no end of them whose grimy rapacity assaults with dinge despite all to remain covered and cloaked. 

This little light of mine…

Not here or now where it’s dim and dank around so many lost and forgotten spirits; the breathing un-dead, in spirit and intellect who are and do nothing other than what’s minimal to keep their loop tolerable in pointlessness. 

There are no advantages here for death yearns for nothing but life. Too attractive are the qualities of drive and direction surrounded by a sea of wallow and remission. 

Who will survive when Life is the mark?