AGE OF WELL-FED WOLVESA Poem by Tasi83![]() Life is harder now, as if there were more well-fed wolves than skinny hungry ones, who are not even fed by their own moxing; all the old encouragements weigh like shackles on sick hearts. Because with refutations hidden in belittling praises, now any conspiracy theory sounds better and better. Because at some point, without exception, everyone will be taken to Death in a screaming ambulance. They have already tugged on the coattails of the melancholy soul enough; with thieflike steps - if they could - a fallen thief would stand on every deserted street corner, begging for some kind of alms. The pendulum of palms outstretched to the side is swaying more and more uncertainly, like a swinging pendulum, in the forest of souls the dogs of the underworld of doubts are still forced to whine from time to time. Sooner or later, human arguments will die out, just like the melodious apologies for forgotten birthday fiascos; from the wormholes of Being, a new negotiated lie slowly crawls out, valid only for a while. Out there, grumpy b******s who want to trample on each other are jostling and pushing, while the common man hardly finds his deserved place in this big World. The concrete blocks of ill will are only a spit away from goodwill - if there is any -, the unscrupulous power industry keeps buzzing like a buzzing swarm of bees, since all that is left are bleating flocks of sheep that cannot be guarded by Davids all the time. They sell them at high prices and then sell them on to Xs and Ys themselves - if the canals of the side streets were to burst open, tons of scum would spill out and their frail earthly souls would be flooded with filth!
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