Praying to Truth

Sunset reflected in the silver disks of the man-wolf's eyes;
he knows what the
lunatics cry in their sub-basement hollows –
a perfect extension of white on white non-distinction,
a sad, toneless oneness with the wan face of the all.
Only he wills to ride the fences in his hairy idolatry of truth –
with fangs more suited to the speech no subtle men can know,
he yells kindness, he howls ecstasy to the masses in their sorry
rear-guard action – preys ever on the willingly depressed seekers of

Erich Campbell

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