The Metal Rabbit

The metal rabbit lived in a room covered in dust. His face had been punched in many years ago by a soldier and it gave him a somewhat depressed and demented look. The room was on the third floor of a large building in an abandoned city. There was one window from which the metal rabbit would peer down onto the street if he so wished, but there there was never anything to see except burnt out buildings as far as the eye could see. He had once watched a building collapse; this was the second most exciting event he had witnessed. The room was empty but for an old piano. Once some plaster had fallen from the ceiling and striking a chord on the piano, the metal rabbit had deeply loved this moment and thought it the most beautiful sound he had ever heard and every day he wished that some plaster might fall and strike the piano just once more, but alas the ceiling stayed intact. On another occasion there had been a strange raucous noise outside, at first the metal rabbit thought it a storm approaching and had stood by the window -for he loved to watch storms approach, but this was no storm: a large flock of crows were circling overhead. They had stayed for a few days and the metal rabbit had watched them with fascination for he could not remember the last time he had seen or even heard an animal. Very long ago the metal rabbit had tried to savour his memories but he soon fund it better to block them out. He had counted every spot of dust in the room and named the stars and mapped the weather patterns. He had invented whole new civilisations, their languages and histories to study. Each night he sung himself to sleep with a new lullaby and sang a new song each morning. His mind was an ever expanding universe. The door to his room was locked and he had been confined there for as many years he knew not, for long ago he had stopped counting.

One Night

One night I ‘woke with a start

In the garden of my heart

To strained voices remorse

Of a past I daren't discourse,

The wanderings I fared therein

My grievous heart dared to sin,

The line ‘twixt bought and sold

To see it not or yet behold,

I feigned hope yet knew it well

The future did not my fire quell,

Sprang from a sea o’ sour regret

A pearl of worth my sorrows beget,

At last I sank to stormy depth

And saw the plight of my steps,

Until this day I thought it rot

I longed to see, yet saw it not

The silver touch ‘pon my mind

My fate ahead, my past behind

I saw the times I tried and failed

In the wake of whence I sailed,

Then on the shore of golden sand

Naught around me did I stand,

Washed away my fear of self,

A book of memories ‘pon the shelf.

Vainglory

Playing God comes at a price, but not without gain.

Perhaps it was innocent, perhaps it was art; most would not have viewed it so. As a large house to wander the halls and corridors, exploring among the multitude of rooms, we all did this; it is our life. So many rooms are unlit; a shadow tickles the fancies of such people. Of cause everyone is curious, and the spirit of adventure is healthy for all, but whereas lighting a way in the darkness provides fulfilment, the pursuit and the creation of shadows leaves a lot to be desired. The myriad of unpaved byroads untrodden by the many are known only by those whom having conquered fear lost their conscience along the way.

Let go and put behind you the rage of wild beasts, of deranged and uncivilised men. Self-control is the first step toward dignity and dignity is closer still to God himself. With these disciplines comes others desired among those who aspire. The first is for one to stand above his fellow men by beating them down and the second is to lift himself up. The first is equated with being somewhat lowly, not only because of it's being brutish in nature but because the subject in question has not really moved himself one way or another. The latter is deemed highly civilised and respected as the height of dignity, to lift oneself up as a bird, neither stepping on his fellow men. But most effective is a combination of both, predominantly the former.

A city of men. These dark, dirty streets are not empty: twisted souls slide through the shadows like serpents, each around their own depraved businesses, each sick with their own disease. But for all the sickness and filth, these streets have their own perverted beauty, a twisted power, an underlying, undying strength. This illegitimate power, this spectral beauty, this poisoner of souls is no respected of persons and therein lies it's greatness. This power is not a weak, frail power, but a mad, unearthly, hideous power. Although some unashamedly revel in this power and let it wholly consume them, for others an infrequent teaspoon of this seraphic power is more than satisfying, yet still in it's grasp it holds them and they it. Mould it and shape it, train it as you would a wild animal lest it turn on you and destroy you.

Where there is no respect all are equal.

Those without the light in their eyes stand apart from their fellow men, they fear them not, for can one fear that which one scorns? Is it wrong for the lion to crush the ants beneath it's heel? or the eagle to do as it will with the mice it catches? The heart of man is dumb and mute without the mind to guide it, as a rock tied to a long cord it swings in the wind. The mind must be the master of all, the king on the throne, not a helper to am obese and dizzy heart. This is the difference, the line that divides between the weak and the strong, the moral man and the amoral man. The common man calls this weakness his conscience, in the uncertainty of a storm of emotions the line drawn between his right and wrong, the moral man feels his conscience is what makes him human and sets him apart from the animal kingdom.
Here stands the man with his heart in one hand and his mind in the other, an importance welling from a deep pit of pride, a poisoned well springing from hades itself. The solemnity, the grandeur, the vanity of vanities. The balance has spilled it weights, it is defunct. Righteousness is but a cloak around the shoulders, justice a scarf over the lips, empathy a badge upon the breast. A nest of serpents in a brightly painted box, a kingdom of kings, a heaven of gods, a hell of devils, a city of men. Vainglory.
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