The Grandeur of Destruction

We simply cannot grasp the centeredness of sorrow, and the aloofness of its contextual misery. The seasons are morosely aligned with our penchant for destruction, elsewhere, elsewhere, elsewhere, the soul has carried the cadavers we thought to have disposed of in our minds.

But destruction is grandeur it is unloveable, and has untapped potentiality. I ought to have wrought those squalors in our souls for the device of language, I must pertain anger, however, bright the imposition of reality is abject horror moves us, and gravitates us towards the dust Ecclesiastes talks about. If death begets death, then annihilation is a forgivable act. But there is reality no annihilation in everything being nothing.