I’ve produced a consumer:
a polylithic monster
of batteries
and baby birds.
I gorge myself on the
swirl of a fish tail,
and a lingering praise riff:
the stuff of life.
The sum of experience
sings together, and
(at least for the moment)
harmonizes.
But within this melody
a grin visceral and sinister
conducts the ultimate
melange into cacophony.
Songs cease,
light fades,
paint dries,
I cry.
And the son of Jesse said
on the day he died
“Solomon, I go…
the way of all the earth.”
And with him went
the blood and battle,
the epic,
the empire.
Gyres widen,
Tendons dislocate,
And Johnny Cash fades away like
Antiochus Epiphanes.
Will I,
even in taking for granted
the iridescence of red
find purpose in this gluttony?
But grace
is like sleep:
it’s a gift
given to whom God wills.
