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Syria

When The World Collapses, Beauty Abounds

There is beauty in failure. The pain of knowing that a moment arrived for your convenience and was dismissed with epic negligence that ultimately breeds the epidemic of discontent.

Such is the climate of disarray that impedes any hope of an acquittal. We fucked up. Look at us. There isn’t enough room to hold you or me. We mock and pray that our unfortunate circumstances will somehow be bulldozed by our erected memes and witty tweets — that circumcise the words of a man that was born to torment and annoy.

Modern civilization is crumbling, and the domino effect is seductively dramatic with the visual effects of Nostradamus and the swift alignment of otherworldly qualities that impact with increased dexterity.

The Book of Revelation exacerbates the details assigned to the end of days in a terrifying way. The mark of the beast — the antichrist — the powerful and unholy creature that breathes fire and deposits its scaly tail in sheer defiance — with lawless wit.

There is suffering everywhere as children are burned, butchered, drowned and blown to bits. The delivery of such horror is packaged with profitable motivation by the media that showcases the residue of attacks with mindless rhythm — accompanied by testimonies by those affected.

Headlines stream with designed freedom, and soon we become accustomed to the laundry of woes that get lighter with each cycle.

We pick and choose where to mourn and ignore the faceless and the nameless as if we are powered with automatic signals that mandate how and why we “Pray” and for whom.

Leaders are born to assume the throne of authority either to save or to kill.

Donald Trump is a criminal. He was born to destroy and to be destroyed by those that try to destroy his intentions.

Despite the grim reality of being an American at a time when such a thing is questionable — the end will not evaporate the cracks in the foundation. They stand firm and true.

When the world collapses, beauty abounds.

It’s in the rush of the wind that sifts from nations into nations — putting out fires and recognizing the innocent as they carry on in the defeat of their heritage. There is a quiet movement that overcomes the eeriness of dismay while the global fury of screams heal the river of blood into a cocoon of mass entry — as the kingdom that beckons — positions for victory.

We will get there. But the ugliness will almost kill us and for good reason.

We can’t create a masterpiece without the master and the patched victims that are strewn together to provide a shield from the plague that threatens to misshapen history.

If history has taught us anything, it’s that you can kill anyone.

Not with knives, guns, bombs or letters laced with poison. It’s the arch of destiny that mercilessly uses us for convenience and then discards with the thread of a moth designed for action but thwarted with the smell of air.

Can anything be more beautiful?

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