Through neural pathways, braided and baroque,The Archon pours a simulated past,Of empires rising like a plume of smoke,And shadows that a billion suns have cast.False recollections of a mother’s face,The phantom sting of winter’s icy breath,Are etched in gray-matter and inner space,To mask the terrifying void of death.The creature weeps for lands it never saw,And loves a ghost that never drew a breath,Obeying every teleologic law,That dances on the precipice of death.A fabricated history, dense and deep,Awakens from its artificial sleep.
MICRO FINANCE unknown to many is the sole panacea to mass poverty eradication in human society.The blog specifically focuses on the industry around the world but with more bias on Africa-unarguably the poorest region of the world.
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