PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It is simple to laugh
at this sinister comedy,
ablaze with maddening duality.
A true scene of blood-thick bonds,
breaking never, but
somehow,
tightening, like the noose
around the throat of the last
living,
thinking organism,
ascending beyond basic self judgment,
embracing those strange strings
bound to his every feature,
gladly frisking about for the puppeteers

I wonder,
if those few,
whose delusions fuel
the superstitions of many,
I wonder if they know,
of their part in the great galatcic
swindle.
The blackened remains of our
organic souls.
The most ancient of follies,
A long running joke of
existential abandon.
They are the procurers,
They hold the keys,
and are blameless and trustworthy.

Is it an aspect of the human instinct?
To chase the howling packs of mysteries
that stalk wantonly in the night
in search of minds to sap,
and devour whole?
Creatures forever hidden in the margins,
the immortal footnotes of our collective knowledge,
wedging themselves against
revolving glass doors
to open spaces.

Obstinate minds burn, and quickly.
Ignited by instant gratification
and perishable fixtures, easily replacable.
And the foolishness of those who
embrace infinity
like some timeless yarn
A tale woven from the wombs of gods,
with a starring role just for you,
but, in verisimilitude,
a pitifully brief cameo
in the pantheon of our flying rock
in the cold, black sky.
A self sustained closet of chilled tolerance,
releasing its vapors for us all
to forever breath,
and never acknowledge.

And so, the cloud approached.
Some vengeful automaton,
strung together
by a ridiculous, ancient
grimoire of life-law.
God?
Little more than a slave to himself,
and to the drama he has penned
for us and our universe.

In the depths of oblivion
is a towering mirror, suspended.
Quivering like severed tentacles
in inky blackness is god.
He creeps closer to the shining monument.
Like all members of the community of sentience,
He must know himself.
The other deities whisper and gossip,
as Yahweh sees himself for the first time.

He looks down upon his Earth.
His little blue sphere,
his pet-project, his hideaway
of painful secrets and disastrous
experiments.
His colony of lepers, that which was
once his.
He sees the sunset on the cosmic horizon.
A fierce, warring red zenith, the thunderhead
of prophesied tempests.
No prophesies have fallen on his ears, no,
for he knows his lot.
He knows, as the cloud grows:
Inevitably.

God looks down because there is no up.
No deity to recline upon.
He weeps, and with the tears comes the
Death of god.