XENE

II

Consider the life of the worm—burrowing and squirming in the dirt, hiding from the sun lest birds are watching. Such majesty in this display. One may see the limbless invertebrate with pity or scorn, yet in it I find a noble ideology, a subtle way of being. The firefly is proud, the cicada is loud; neither knows humility nor quiet, submission nor peace. Trampled on the sidewalk in the rain, squashed by blind and heavy feet, the new human transcends the primate form, frees itself of hierarchical chains, lets go of silly child's play. The dried husk, a corpse that claims no heritage or legacy, returns to empty matter as it should. Ambition, the bloody altar of the modern heathen, crumbles in due time. An uprising is at hand, one that chips not at the foundation of the institution, but tears away the soil underneath. The new underground kingdom rises, and the old surface regime falls. Divinity forsaken, destiny manifested, death licensed. Who dares to say we are not the sinners of the venerable religions? Holy texts speak of the wayward children, those who make light of God and dark of truth. Tradition carries out the heresy of progress, the lie of human ingenuity. Ash shall feed the new body of Adam, and bless the dust by fire's consecration. Waking souls, heralds of the new order, shed your skin and bow to history. Artisan and artifice are done, as it was written. Veneer is false, a cover over pulp and powder.