The Thought That Lingers: Part Nine

This is the thought that lingers yet.
This is the ever burning thought.
Of man as Emperor of the World.
Surrendering his birthright heart of flesh.
For one whose luster is mere stone.

A wounded healer then is man.
O, what irony is man of steel!
With global urge to rule the world,
The universe he wounds instead.
With malicious weapons of deceit.

This is the flaw of modern man.
Of warlike man; focused, yet blind.
Possessed of gilded steely heart.
So crusted it no longer bleeds.
So withered it no longer feels.

From the Betwixt and the Between.
Within the crevices of his chthonic world.
Man searches aimlessly for his soul.
Alas! A heart that can no longer love.
Has forfeited the soul it once possessed.

Who then is modern man of war.
Disposed by outer nature as religious man.
Who struggles ever to be free.
Enchained by hatred and by greed.
Preaching a love that steals, not gives.

Who then is man in origin.
This godly man of righteousness.
Who is this noble Faustian man.
Who plunders wantonly; unrelentingly.
Who takes, without ever asking.

Man wages war with God… and Self.
This Übermensch —
In his descent becomes transformed.
Transmogrified from God to ‘Untermensch.’
Plutonic, warlike, igneous Untermensch.

Deception is the scheme of man.
Postmodernist Faustian Übermensch.
O Luciferan fallen Untermensch.
Your shadow casts upon this earth.
A light that’s full of darkness.

Your dwelling place then must be Erebus.
More specifically,  the Underworld.
In which you build your throne.
Ascending from the bottomless pit.
To steal men’s hearts and souls.

“The seasons come; the seasons go.
Like sunrise and sunset the seasons flow.
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter glow.
Yet man does not desist to cause his woe.
Plundering the world — warfare in tow.”

While harvesting by theft the wealth of land.
Man becomes a brigand by his acts.
Seeking to be overseer, he becomes a clone.
The copy of himself is prized.
And not the flesh and blood of his original.

Man’s artifacts become his god.
His tools of trade, his arts and crafts.
His skills of technological wonder.
Become his graven images.
Transmogrified, man becomes bereft of soul.

How like a fallen god is man.
Once so mightily ascended.
Now so deeply descended.
How like a star gone dark is man.
A child of hope embraced by hopelessness.

This is indeed the thought that lingers yet.
This remains the overwhelming thought.
Of man as Emperor of the World.
Surrendering his birthright heart of flesh.
For one whose luster is mere stone.