The Landscape of Dis Is Not Dissimilar to Erie

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.

 

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