Minds Flying on the Wings of the word Truth

What the cutting opinionators have left,

swarming commentators have eaten.

What the swarming commentators have left,

the hopping mad pundits have eaten,

and what the hopping mad pundits have left,

the melancholic scribe still must eat.

 

On a hard awakening, these poor sods only weep,

and wail, these thinkers after these melees,

who try to sit down and write enduring sweet visions,

that is quarantined from manipulating mouths.

For their re-creations butt against modern methods,

The highs of feeding and beyond number;

Those highs are needing no needle,

For they bite like any fanged specie.

Currency has laid waste tenets of metaphysical talk

that grip imaginations and splinter down channels,

having stripped off pretense and thrown it down;

the course of learning is greatly roughened.

 

Poets lament this as though lost adults

Lamenting the loss of formative guides in their youth.

Their body offerings and blood offerings cut 

from the chaos of a running home.

Thinkers mourn,

For the dusted mini-series of their ideas.

Their metaphyisicisms destroyed by comedians,

their ground mourns as they walk it,

they struggle to re-create happiness,

their inspirations dry up,

their pen languishes on the page.

 

Secretly ashamed, these tillers of the spiritual soil;

And they cry, as wing-dressers,

Since the power of bread and the wine,

Once harvested at prayer had diminished.

Their vine dries up; the fantasy tree languishes.

Supernatural, divinity, essence,

all the guides on their road are drifting away;

and gladness too, has dried up.