All the little pixies just go pouf!
Hiding in the woods, fleeting like dead leaves when the trees go bear. Life in the world with all its meditations vitalized thanks to the blood streaming across the innumerable arteries into the veins of a potential corpse, that'll be left behind, stranded & of course lost in the dust till doom's day.
Death is indeed a very kind mistress to the secret soul. Embracing the loved-one in the inner temple; everyone there, is a burning bush, an un-depletable torch. Inspired by their own godhead, free and loyal till death. A chosen few who chose not to be chosen! Because their Honor sprung spontaneously from an from an unwarranted certainty, rooted in nothing, always liberating inside, what dirties a ghost's entrails.
Who can lose, when its a real heart that wins, over and above eternity, with disdain for self pity, humiliating no one.
They can keep their mongrel tyrant of a god,
and speak with slave-angels all they wish,
in the land they've taken from the ancient others.
The brave with their family are already
in Paradise,
but the body bot from here
falls into oblivion
with those who lauded
the scoundrel's life and a petty god.
Yet all the little pixies go pouf in a blitz. Wandering between white oak and mountain ash, on an astral plain. Because now even though the forests have been cut, never to be replanted: it's time to go to the next place, where oak & ash are never felled! ...and pretty pixies frolic.
...and yes there, the pixies just dont go pouf, but stay and watch, the Aryan parade in a new Hyperborea. And it's not the Old One!
Its in you, but you have to fight.
& lose but get the best of your enemy, first
before going off with the Pixie Folk.
Fright is a fear a silly way of being
when there's no longer any god. People practice like programmed zombies,
when it's the Bible god who'll rule in their stead.
