By His Own Hands He Dies

Hunger. Insatiable hunger. Come and get your fill. Though one never gets full. No, not really. An addiction, maybe more antagonizing than others. For the temptress is always on your shoulder. Oh, the tastes she'll tempt you with. The sweet of an apple pie, covered in ice cream, vanilla to be precise. Rich chocolate, making love with your tongue. Sweet's cousin craving, salt, begging to penetrate your mouth whenever you'll let him. Any and every animal, enticing you with its meat.

The brain, in on these devilish tricks to make you want that of which you don't need. Making you want what's not good for you. What only works against you. Show me a lust more powerful than appetite. No flesh of a being nor pleasure of the eye can compete. Lust, one of the seven deadly sins, did I read that once?

Hunger, what is it that it wants? The instantaneous pleasure. The pleasure convincing you to fit more, then more, then even more. The stretch of your stomach, whatever sludge your brain has tricked into your hand then into your mouth, they are of no concern to this pleasure. This greedy, possessive pleasure rewiring your brain into unfaithfulness and estrangement from the nourishment your body longs for. Nourishment, only gifted by what's natural. Just as porn, so unlimited at your fingertips renders the touchable breast bleak, man's creation of unlimited, mutilated tastes renders even the sweetest of fruit with no power to please the tainted tongue. Fruit, once powerful enough to tempt Mother Eve into evil, they have no such bearing on us now.

Man loves what is unnatural because it is his creation. Now he is a god. If only what is unnatural loved us just as much. Foolishly man will die by his own creation, intoxicated in pleasure every inch closer on his way to the grave. The sage man will carry the temptress on his shoulder paying no humor to her lies. For the sage man knows it's forsaken Mother Nature's last laugh, if by his own hands he dies.