There’s no divinity here, here, there,
or there. Look around! Everything! Everything
decays, even the building your dying body is caged
in will crumble like a Mosque shot down with our
own drones. Clones of demons coming as radio
fliers: they almost look like a child’s toy. It is not even
in the place in between here and there that anything
divine reins. God is just
an extension of oneself. Unfortunately
stupidity rules the roost, as they say, so people
fractionate off into various fractal forms of inept
life. Trafficking for evil—also known as Money,
in the land of Modernity—from spiritual things, charting
their own circles leading them down the earth. People erect
mausoleums to keep the end neat—shiny marble tidy
without dirt, outside debris, most of all no
worms, no maggots—the insects always find a way
in though. The comedy: ultimate irony. There’s nothing
but tragedy because of voices being silenced by their own ignorant
shortcomings. In order to live, one must learn civil coping
mechanisms. Lacking the fortitude, I’m no angel, but others have said
as much. If I am an angel it’s one of fallen grace
left guarding the walls of my city with fervent
fury—never letting anyone in. That is unless,
of course, their exquisite heartache
matches that of mine. The monumental
moment a foot steps forward, once
the walls have been blown away as broken
bits, the entire known world changes forever
to some far off place in Africa where the ground
underneath all feet is burning, no
girl is ever left to be innocent making her Mama’s heart
heavy and hollow with ashes on the forehead of love
passing on. Burning always. Burning.
October 21, 2016
Categories: Poetry . . Author: disdainfulbeauty . Comments: Leave a comment