hypocritepoet

To be the wrong kind of right To be patient To endure

To face to the wind With hope And zeal To accept truth To behave honestly To love good And to be good

But hope at least. Hope just comes.

Voltaire said:

“Every man is a creature of the age in which he lives. Few are able to raise themselves above the ideas of their time.”

What Voltaire misunderstood is that it is not only zeitgeist or influence of our age that we must resist. Rather, it is the malevolent force of will that stalks us. Those seeking righteousness especially. That it waits and watches like a specter in the shadows and the quiet moments of our life. It is there when we are alone and most honest, so honest in fact, that we give the demon the intel it needs to perform its clandestine mission with greatest efficacy.

So, designs are made, traps are set. Disguised on paths we do not know we will yet walk. They are tended, mended and adjusted through days of our lives as the hunter stalks us. While we become comfortable and complacent and confident that nothing will ever befall us. We, the most common of men. Who, by the hunter’s measure are anything but common.

We are big game.

The trophy of trophies with which he will not just decorate his wall, but then host a dinner party on the day of his execution and laugh with maniacal glee at how clever and patient he had to be to accomplish his dark deed.

And when he pays the price of non-existence, it will matter not at all to him that we already have.

My fear My damning confession Is that I may not

Be

That few.

Or

The

One.