Many a man modernism hath killed.The Hitlers, the Hoovers and then, the Vanderbilts. Men of power; men of grace; men of fame. Attempting to live forever, their eyes staring starkly at their legacies.
Many great men modernism hath killed.The Guevaras, the Gräfenbergs and of course, Hemingway. Men earnestly plodding through this winding world wandering; mostly floundering forward with no way.
Only had they their existence with a true centre. Then their worlds wouldn’t have so quickly been shattered.
Sheltered living. Yes…in the shadows of a much bigger man. I should think it was probably how men were supposed to live.
Of a truth, many men modernism hath killed. Men professing wisdom foolishly; like a shirt misbuttoned. Free men trying so hard to be free in their own minds, taking upon themselves the drudgery of ‘trying to be’ when they already were. Ailing men, looking to find themselves, who knew not of the one thing needful:
Yeshua, a man from a small town called, Nazareth and his indistinct claim to be God.
Indistint is too easy, like a target you could never miss. But man, scarred by his need not to feel lost; to be in control and by his undying love for novelty, is tripped by the low bar. What men modernism hath killed? A sea of tombstones, walking…but dead.