Praying to Truth
Sunset reflected in the silver disks of the man-wolf's eyes;
he knows what the
lunatics cry in their sub-basement hollows
a perfect extension of white on white non-distinction,
a sad, toneless oneness with the wan face of the all.
Only he wills to ride the fences in his hairy idolatry of truth
with fangs more suited to the speech no subtle men can know,
he yells kindness, he howls ecstasy to the masses in their sorry
rear-guard action preys ever on the willingly depressed
seekers of
nothingness.
Erich Campbell
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