There are those for whom terror is the best god
Past invoked from the sacrificial pit of the present
The false foundations of palsied certainties
Firing at dials to stop the day
The vine fails
The olive tree cheats us
The burning field withers
Our bones are dry
Our hope is drained
We are cut off
The labyrinth of the continuum
An outcast on the mountains of the heart
The inward turn becomes the inward spiral
A holy hand upon the nest of night
Do we not feel the breath of empty space?
This ubiquitous virtual sense of loss
The yawning gulf of past and future time
The silent outward turn of emptiness
We are the relics of our ruined past
The rotting of the base material
The everlasting pitiful “too late”