Delicious Decay
A whiff and a glimpse of destiny
I think back to the time when the world first stopped, was it 9/11?
Or maybe it was Covid?
The times when the skies were reserved
Only for birds and butterflies.
I give myself pause, and remember the thought of Death.
No wondrous vision
No realization
Abandoned by love
For the darkness, the substance of nothing.
I saw the time the world stopped
When the toxic madness of aquisition
Relented to an inquisition of silence.
I could feel the fear, pulsing so near
The urge to die by injection.
The neighbors screamed incomprehensible things
And the skies without planes were shimmering.
The flow of the world became visible
As the blasted dead trees
Stood in mute testimony
To the people who killed them
With chemtrails and fire.
600 new billionaires
Schwabbie diapers
Convinced of their greatness
Amongst two thousand dollar an hour hookers.
Beyond it all the pall of danger…failure.
What if your nine eleven and your great covid were just the powers and principalities giving you a space to listen? Did you hear, or did you just hold your anxiety near, anxiety, your savior?
What if choosing injection was just choosing deafness and a rejection of reality?
What if your ego strutting and your cargo cult fantasy are but passing occupations on the carpet layed out by relations with greater beings your towering ego ignores?
War! Invade! Politics! Throw some shade!
What you worship is what you will become
And after that day is done
The failure of light and living.
The great wheel, I have seen it in my dreams, it is huge and imposing upon the subtle field, and it must manifest all things. The wheel of grand Fortuna’, the wheel of rebirth, the great unconscious mirth at its own irony.
Another time is nigh, where grand failure rises high, giving you another opportunity.
For in the black, missing persons, terrible lack, lies the truth behind giving up your grabbing mangling that manifests in sand falling through your fingers.
In the sorrow and the pain, regret for time, for past decisions made, weakness and loss and nothing gained.
How precious this moment!
Bereft and bereaved, my duct taped shoes, I stare at the fence I made with a section fallen, and I lack the energy to correct its slump. My work gloves have holes, no one gives a shit other than to laugh at my condition. Not one of them can say that they grasp the decay, the quiet mouldering into shapeless nothing. The flash the fruits of their stashes of cash, invade and take whatever is wanted. Their time is but a wheel, no stopping, nothing to feel but the invasion of grace, from a misplaced devotion to insanity.
It seems in times like these that no one sees the old world leaving.
Yet the beautiful hands of decay are gently arrayed to bring
A soft voice
A collapsing.