Mob Psychology
By quantummysticist18
The mobs shout and riot,
Petitioning for contracts and compromises.
Still I stay underground,
Ignoring their pleas and cries.
To be acutely aware of death's ghostlike presence,
To see how penetrating is the stare of Mephistopheles,
Is to live a life that is barely a life at all.
One stands at the precipice
With the awful knowledge
That what is beneath is just the same as what is above.
Death is not peaceful.
It is turbulent, horrible, stitched from red and black thread
Made from the silk of wicked spiders.
When strands of ether commit psychological mutiny,
The screams of the masses
Become one with the screams of one's own brain,
Which in turn burst from the tunnel in blinding light
And die, sputtering out in the charcoal void.
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Copyright 2015 Christopher P. Gazeent