A Harvest of Dolor

If only it were true that the target of peccant affection were limited to the Executive, and the balance of humanity spared, and left in a state of uncorrupted venal purity, for then the puppet antics of a preposterous unitary might be sensibly viewed as a temporary and even humorous episode. Unfortunately, reality is otherwise, as the pollutions run wide and deep, even to the very heart of saints. Any man complacent in his purity and innocence already stands with one foot in Hell, as all men are imperfect and deluded in degree. Rank, or yet better said rankness, has its privileges, and of foremost ambivalence are the blessings of worldly power. Herein the beggar finds salvation in misfortune, and the prince in fortune a curse, wherewith the crown traffics with the jeopardy of evil’s covet, and incuriosity greets the lot of the pauper and the saint. But in the great sweep from favor to disfavor serve leagues of obsequious antichrist aspirants matriculating to power and influence, willingly in perpetration of psychological mischief, mayhem and revelry. Cherished in affection are those that suckle on the teat of the public pendent, an ever expanding and ravenous litter, from whose inveterate feeders are harvested the rich produce of the dole, the sycophant, the truckler and the fawner. Upon this dolor the dark emerging masters hone their persuasive and dissuasive skills, become versed in sophistry and subterfuge, accomplished in civil intercourse, couched now in the balm and soothe of affability. Heaven spare us, that we have so lowered ourselves to be their equal. How unconvincingly one argues the reality and presence of these hidden legions of shameless chameleons when the voices heard are calm, reasonable and whose mannerisms now mimic the unfortunate mark. The looming massive delusion will be facilitated by this baleful gather that has evolved to be self controlled and even knowledgeable, such glib menace the more powerful since it today secretes behind the comportment of the modern man.