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Literature Text
how beautiful the end of the world can be,
with its bright lights and colors.
how beautiful the end can be,
with noises that trumpet like ancient melodies of
disguised demise –
is there anyone to read these masks?
the sky overhead is streaked thunderhead-gray,
ink smudged over wheat-colored paper at the borders
of well-loved stories;
well-loved, well-cloaked,
well-hidden in these new thoughts, far-reaching glances
of what it is like to lose all in an age of
always having everything.
there is no one to rebuild this culture.
eagles cry and freedom begs, stumbling
over broken violin strings, weeping –
murmurs on the edge of the Amazon, shredded forests, just patches of sky –
this world polluted by an execution of sensitivity.
where, oh, where has this busy road taken us?
we can no longer be the point of affluence in this universe
when we are just remembering what it is like
to lose.
with its bright lights and colors.
how beautiful the end can be,
with noises that trumpet like ancient melodies of
disguised demise –
is there anyone to read these masks?
the sky overhead is streaked thunderhead-gray,
ink smudged over wheat-colored paper at the borders
of well-loved stories;
well-loved, well-cloaked,
well-hidden in these new thoughts, far-reaching glances
of what it is like to lose all in an age of
always having everything.
there is no one to rebuild this culture.
eagles cry and freedom begs, stumbling
over broken violin strings, weeping –
murmurs on the edge of the Amazon, shredded forests, just patches of sky –
this world polluted by an execution of sensitivity.
where, oh, where has this busy road taken us?
we can no longer be the point of affluence in this universe
when we are just remembering what it is like
to lose.
only at the end can one wish for the beginning.
© 2010 - 2024 miss-momentum
Comments7
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incredible.