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Poem: A Man Without Purpose

A man without purpose is a man with no home,
He is a stranger in all lands,
Devoid of destination of origin,
Meandering across fields in search of that which he may devour,
A man without purpose is a cancer,
Both to himself and to his environment,
He seeks to destroy that which fundamentally binds the successor,
That which he is empty of,
He is a carnivorous creature,
Voracious in his appetite,
Sniffing out the rosy flesh of he who lives,
And slowly usurping his mantle,
Or perhaps he is a scavenger,
Scouring the lands for the carrion of the desolate thinker,
A man without purpose is a tumor,
A disease which turns the vibrant to anemic,
His antipathy for that which has direction knows no bounds,
And his repugnance averts even the most true arrow from its mark,
If the mischievous is capricious in his temperament,
The man without purpose is stolid in his pursuits,
Stoic and resolute,
His appetite for destruction masked by his outward appearance,
He is something like radio interference,
Or a severance from the traditional ideas of preference,
He is a parasitic agent,
With motives conflagrant,
Prepared to set fire to all matters of achievement,
Or advancement,
He is Satan’s son.
The Jackal’s pet.
His hands are the Enemy’s workshop,
His mind is the Anarchist’s bet,
And that gamble is that he can tumble
As many righteous towers as possible.
A man with out purpose is hell’s Apostle.



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