Angel

This is a most wearisome age.
A few drops here, a few there
And the night fissions
Shadows start their ascent to the surface.
Coalescing, apparitions of forms,
Here they come again aware of their despair.
The roses lay around the burning bush, their beauty ferments and that’s all I see, barefooted or not.
The pagan mind lurks among the curb-stomped aborted modern world, homunculus to only a few waylaid souls late night at Taco Bell.
Culture has all been written and enjoyed before, all that’s left is farce and humiliation, a tired retread, energized and over-compensated by those hypnotized. The artists and those with life now thumbnail themselves looking shocked and sad to stimulate a click. Stimulate until sterile and then rinse and repeat on another neural pathway.
Let’s burn instead, kindle inescapable untold power smothered by those seeking extinction events. Burn all things in your life that you know deep inside hold only ash.
We don’t even know what gold is.
Does no one exist anymore who craves more than an adoring crowd screaming their name?

Blackened clouds, deep blue behind, fading into night