Hope of Heavenly Splendor

What drives the persistent efforts of this damn-fool machination? Does the hope of heavenly splendor suffice to transfix souls in the midst of a mad drive towards whatever bleak and uncaring end tears the pulse from within to without? What nightly demon dreams soothe the starkly shorn slivers of unkempt society’s systemic and systematic disengagement of the one mind from the cycle of plenty, preferring linear means toward finite ends at which time none fall as hard as the wicked except the great and dignified leaders of men, savagely torn from the fruits of their labor as infants from their mothers’ wombs, shorted six singles and one identity as the fruits of myth fall from Adam’s tree, rotten to the core with the stink of gold and perfumed halls built from within by conniving idolaters in search of luxury.