Karma is a Bitch, but Not in the Way you Think

Every karmic cycle is like a candle burned to the wick; fighting to stay lit in the chaos of the world. It is one belief that tricks the mind with illusions of everything good, banquets of love filled to the brim of the sweetest treats. Temperance to understand and to rule the wailing soldiers long silent to their general’s commands. 

Among the stars so distant that the faint light is an echo of smoke in swirling galaxies, know about the meaningless nothing that dashes the hope of feeble minds. The stars are the brimming nothing that judges from the sky, an immortal casting doubt weighing helpless options on a broken scale. With all the knowledge bountiful in the strokes of minds across the sky amounts to nothing but selfishness.

The falling stars streaking across the night sky to fall below the horizon, can only be akin to human folly. The small human standing on the wide earth can curse the moon and the stars, the creatures that live there, and the burning dissatisfaction of their own hearts. 

Treks across the desert for a drop of water; capsizing ships on the sea for a coin of silver. Unreasonable and cruel it is for the knowing, the imprint of souls passed from one place to the next, to survive in the heart of a volcano. Unusual and eclectic to know that souls are the thin string to be worn and dissipated with age. 

When knees are bruised from prayers, tears glistening on altars, what is there to answer but the cold void? Idols are the palm-sized constraints of a giant; offerings the forgetfulness of autonomy. Selflessness is the saint of flagellation. 

Good and bad do not mean anything. The attempt to describe a human’s actions as one or the other is our own chaos with rules, the governance that means little at the bottom of the sea where all consciousness sinks. The passing thread of fate is a roll of the dice on a lopsided table. 

Blackened from the fires of cruelty, when the dice turns good for them, the groove will always turn right-side up. Hearts nailed by swords to the altar of the sunny facing die, bleed the farthest from Jupiter. 

Nothing is how it should be. 


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