the observable world
The fevered flesh dissolves these favored faiths, all the imagined kingdoms, all the faraway lands. The bitter dose of blood and dust, footprints left in the cool ash and pliant stone. The forgone conclusion of all these fairy stories, the holy ghosts and the heaven sent. Tell the earth all of your sorrows. Tell the sky all your joys. Have a beverage, bring a pillow. It is the comfort of the journey that drives all these errors. It is the determination of the myth maker to have that final say.
I tire of your stories, tire of the endless pantomimes. The weary reiterations of whatever ghost story makes your hearts hum, the bizarre torture apparatuses and strange consolation prizes of whatever hidden king you favor. The sorry palliatives based on mystery, the attachment of purpose to each personal tragedy. Your god culpable in every murder, your god instrumental in every broken child. You have nothing worth claiming, no thought that will make the world one bit better. Just hellfire and sanctimony. Just a book full of reasons that make no sense.
I pace across these memories and graves, the pain of the loss a little dulled by time, but teeth and claws still utile sharp and Nature red. The scars of the heart stitch slow and leave seams that ache and harrow. The joys of the world and its sorrows are of this world. Anything else empties life of any meaning it might accumulate. Anything else is an affront to all our loss and pain. I live here in the observable world. Keep your heaven to yourself.
The fevered flesh dissolves these favored faiths, all the imagined kingdoms, all the faraway lands. The bitter dose of blood and dust, footprints left in the cool ash and pliant stone. The forgone conclusion of all these fairy stories, the holy ghosts and the heaven sent. Tell the earth all of your sorrows. Tell the sky all your joys. Have a beverage, bring a pillow. It is the comfort of the journey that drives all these errors. It is the determination of the myth maker to have that final say.
I tire of your stories, tire of the endless pantomimes. The weary reiterations of whatever ghost story makes your hearts hum, the bizarre torture apparatuses and strange consolation prizes of whatever hidden king you favor. The sorry palliatives based on mystery, the attachment of purpose to each personal tragedy. Your god culpable in every murder, your god instrumental in every broken child. You have nothing worth claiming, no thought that will make the world one bit better. Just hellfire and sanctimony. Just a book full of reasons that make no sense.
I pace across these memories and graves, the pain of the loss a little dulled by time, but teeth and claws still utile sharp and Nature red. The scars of the heart stitch slow and leave seams that ache and harrow. The joys of the world and its sorrows are of this world. Anything else empties life of any meaning it might accumulate. Anything else is an affront to all our loss and pain. I live here in the observable world. Keep your heaven to yourself.