THE SATANIC CULTURE

I am of the culture.

A culture so ethically disparate,
Yet so radically desperate.

Where,
The aversion to rational temper,
Is a pretext of the primal temper.
No better than the loyalties of a social climber.

Where,
The resort to perfidy
At the hours of adversity,
Is a victory of the human vision.
But it is not a treason,
The cold death of reason.

Where,
The wails of the suffering humanity.
Is fodder for the rich's vanity.
But is it worth for the profanity,
At the sake of human sanity.

Is there any room for such blind doom?
A doom,
Where envy is second nature,
And fellow ruin is human pasture.

But now,
I need a flight.
A flight of pristine delight.
From the clutches of this self-despise,
This rapid demise.

I need,
A slice of a humble pie,
Not the vice of a gross lie.

The face of utopian fancy,
Not the menace of vile fallacy.

A boon of moral serfdom,
Not the bane of immoral freedom.