The Mastery of Vanity

The dark black infection to the mind of the merry is like a wing swing of a bee. Yellows and blacks contrast inside the soul of the poisoned tearing his solidity and darkening his space. None of understanding might comprehend but he of sense might know the riddle of the demanding pressure of affection. To foretell might be easier and to predict is smoother than the realization of the truth between the muscle folds of the beating heart. The yet unfashionable words of understanding are the words of passion and the undesired meanings are those of unity. This ungrateful rock spins around its demise in the orbit of vanity. The faces made resemblance to the ground where their roots have held firm. Fruits of tar bring no pleasure and leaves of abandonment leave no color signature. Dark blacks and dull yellows cover the whole with the sinful poison of loneliness and abomination of self pity. Shall it be told? Or have it been foretold? I doubt.