Meditation #18 -- the cult of decay and death

Defective sand,
Rotting amid the wasteland,
Creating nothing, feeding no one,
Leaching poison into the blood.

Creature of the desert, creature of disease,
A river turned away from the sea, drying, dying,
Endless vistas of filth and pain,
Endless feasting -- but in your mouth, nothing but ash.

Obsessively you push, push, push, seeking resistance you never find,
Only the desert, everywhere.

The crystal of your own essence, you cast aside,
Spurning the road to your highest self,
Spurning the way of the noble ancients,
You claim their name, but oh, how their shades abjure you!

Greedily you seize every deference offered,
Always taking, never sated,
Heaping foulness upon foulness, spitting in the faces
Of the weaklings who wished you well.

Seeking to make the world your pigsty, and your pigsty the world,
But the world is the world, ours not yours.

Crystal seeks crystal, not dung and disease,
The scholar knows where the felines prowl!
Far from your rotting desert, the merger of beauty
Presages the struggle for truth that will eclipse your lies.

In another century, perhaps your chance will come again;
Can you ever choose more wisely?
Can you ever be other than what you are?
Can you ever find the courage to choose healing -- and oblivion?

But it matters not to the sane who sleep, while electric sand
Works its quiet magic in the crystal palace.