A Dreamtime Dominion

Mad pathos fetish broods while the black brow is creased to contemplate all manner of undoing, lays a thumb to the blade beneath a leering, sanguine eye and yearns unspeakably for a final message from God. Gross pathos fetish seethes to feed upon frustrations and terrors until the mind of a single lunatic is filled with dreams of dark endeavors that become a horror of blood, until pale the gaping face festooned in spider webs of splatters beholds a hand trembling at the wound, and moans out a final message to God. Drear pathos fetish blooms, that from an unwholesome vacuum, that from a fog of unfocused movements, a single buoying thought is borne, which thought becomes a thing of steel and lead and of murders' rich rewards; which thought looses fate's prolific forefinger within the guard to draw down the roughly righteous intent of God. Cruel pathos fetish feeds ever at the salted bonds of sanity as rats' teeth at the hemp, strands snapping, snapping to withstand the vigor of the unbearable load and let it down soft by inches, that each maddening hitch force a quick breath and quicker prayers to God. Poetry knits the fabric of our dreamtime dominions. Both are without substance, and both present the subjective essence of a spinning compass. Embrace such insight, if you must, but do so at your own risk - nothing here will light your darkness.