The End


Hard-earned solitude found in denial,
restrained, channeled
into eternal pariah status; and what more
do the fastidious seek so fervently?
“Fool me once,” etc.; and apt,
quite so, when one’s a worm.
Burrowing in the dirt,
searching many years for a sign
that the Kingdom has come at last.
Terrestrial opisthopora,
you should not spend your whilsts
whittling down the hours to eschaton;
can you not see? No, you cannot;
therefore let me tell you:

Corrugated shutters nigh full adorn
the city streets, and further thus display
the signs that many yet are missing;
the paving stones of cobbled yore are wet
thro’ with blood and vomit, a lifetime’s worth;
and who spilt such foul fluids in the cold,
windy morn? who else but you, i.e. yourself?
we all bleed senseless in the gutter
quite forgotten by those who tell us to stand
and to claim our own destiny: but, yet . . .

Now does the picture become clear in your mind?
Think twice when crossing these roads,
and do not hope for such a cheerful resolution
as that which we term “The End.”


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