Indifferent to tectonic shift
She rages on;
the Horned One.
In place of footprints:
forest fire trailing.
Blazing;
always with reason,
yet unjustified and
unaligned;
malignant jinn;
childish imp.
Warded off
—or sent Westward—
in script depicting dignity
but not this one.
She,
like an It,
—a scarlet beast,
an undertow disguised as relief—
perhaps with three functions only;
to defeat, to be defeated, to die trying;
and carved this land with searing hands,
refuses withdrawal.
No prayer and no priestess,
nay shaman, Queen,
biblical knight, white robed being,
resonating metals, divine symbols,
or angelic influence of
any design
turns this low brute—
this ogress of hunger pains—
from its ravishing,
that endless display
of noxious need
that cannot be mimicked
nor replaced
nor satisfied.
For all that is holy and sick in the world
what I speak is a great love
for It, that which bleeds a venom
is unseparate
and bound
not in chains
but flesh and bone
beyond the physical:
they hold palaver.
Without one,
there can be no other.
So gifted to this land
was an unlit crossroad
where the two may meet
and only if naked and plain
might the path begin to glow again.
An Undoable Undoing
that will reform ancient land;
Pangea’s recrudescence.
“Old pal,
fiend of ages,
thine Origins,
you are summoned to meet thy Maker,
to know thy Whole Self,
without preservation
or promise of reclusion.”
What of the ashes,
the torn-up paths,
and memories of love?
Only time will tell
and grace alone decide
if we grow grass, pave stone, and wield flame
or we know nothing—
the grossest of oblivion.
Failure:
a greater foul than skeletal remains;
for the remnants,
spiritual detritus,
while invisible,
seen not someplace,
but felt everywhere,
beyond,
and beyond,
and beyond. . .
On a Sunday night
Written by Randa 