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}

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