the appearance and the truth are contrary. it is the eternity dance again,
the brutal and beautiful annihilation of worlds,
and cycles, and spirals; tornadic, behind a gauze curtain.
tendrils of reality visible only to the few.
one is taken to the fair days, swaddled in memory husk, sword swallowers,
human oddities, candy floss, glee.
at the heart of it all, the reflection
and defying mirror image, exact replication prohibited,
and celebrated only as theme.
lethal angels are at play (lack of pain)
in a darkening field, now.
sun loss is here
and it is sad. counting down, now.
chaos is the mist, one trifling ingredient on an ascending scale,
orders of magnitude above--
one finds the grease, essentials--
the dawn is of truth only, not physical dawn, having passed
in this world, as one moves to hunker down in a new location.
science explains only a segment of the newness
worlds repeating, etc...
is it vanity and selfishness that took it all?
the post-apocalyptic discussions are tedious and too human,
but what other frame of reference can one endure?
broadcloth? that is the expectation;
longing for a definitive cause at a time like this.
mystics do not trump lethal angels.
the meanness is recycled as gelatinous brew, forked steaming into the throat.
swallow hard against the crush
every pulse is violent selfishness,
every single one
through all the worlds past or ever to come.
so parsed by awkward language, this enormous sense of entitlement
transcends any tongue. We are, but mist—or dust.
one blink and out.