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The Orange
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Commentary on Apocalypses in silent space an orange
exploded.
you learned to love The Bomb,
just that one time.
this collision of ideas
and emotions;
a supernova of shapes
and of senses.
now the fever has been breaking,
the pressure has been
dissapating.
combustible
chemical
reactions cooling.
god, look what you've done,
in the mirror shown your brillance,
you got all teary-eyed
and made a universe.
eons down the road -
not satisfied to explore creation,
and write a symphony about it -
creatures like us
have longed to play you
in castles,
and as statues;
on battlefields,
stages and airwaves,
and, finally, in laboratories
that could make
everywhere
a battlefield.
clearly, you've already
done it all on a cosmic level,
so, i guess,
to undo it all
is the only way to replace you,
and so it came to pass on this earth.
covered in the dust of Starry Night,
Symphony Number 9,
and The Road Not Taken
was every road i walked upon -
i walked the world over.
i walked town after town,
rubble and ash,
as if a clay mug
made once by a child in class,
that a parent,
devastated,
had slip out of their hand -
yet this deed done with intent.
just rubble and ash,
and the burnt, faint smell
of the now distant past
till i reached one place -
what was once a village square,
i'm certain of it.
someone stood there,
far more than once,
declaring, that moment,
claiming themselves important.
and there on a table,
in a bulletproof glass box
that somehow hadn't cracked a bit,
a single orange, in a vacuum.
a crazy man, with a gun
guarding it,
glancing at the glass,
then, in craze inspired,
drawing in the sand.
i stood at a safe distance,
but i knew, instantly, what he was doing.
cause he had that same look you did,
that time, holding an orange,
you looked in the mirror,
but his hardened by obsession
to be the one and only
living statue.
and there he was,
drawing out with his finger,
a technological advancement,
a contraption to explode it,
and start it all over again.
