Mystic Rust

In dicisive times, I fear the rusted minds
Stylishly safe in bitter certainties of the nature of man
Filtering out the positive and hope, while amplifying sin,
In this self-dimmed world atrocity can begin to make sense.

It's not in height or lost inside the light,
Of gray-bearded thrones or manly archetypes,
That threaten to forgive.
It's reflective of an arrogance exclusively in us.
The skies that we make fit and feel comfortable are illusions.

They must dissect whatever they get on,
I can't understand that,
I wish to know – what are they getting out of their hostilities?
Themselves they grope, destruction gets them off…
All is lost too quick for modern advance….

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