Falsity covers your world. Preconceptions of good or great grow like mold over your soul as you sell pieces of it to commonality. A slave to another’s whims and wills has tainted your objectivity; crushed the spirit of imagination.

There was a time when your heart beat colors as vivid as a forest scene. Now, only your master’s desires flow in your hardening veins.

“Encourage the weak for they shall inherit,” he whispers in your obedient ear. “Make me rich and I shall offer you false wealth.”

You gobble up his victims and regurgitate them for his appetite. He allows you to rest on his carpet of moss while he consumes the fruit above you. Maybe a seed will fall for you to grow into a new soul for him to devour.

Be careful what you plant, however. I just took a shit on the rug.