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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It is simple to laugh at this sinister comedy, ablaze with maddening duality. A true scene of blood-thick bonds, breaking never, but somehow, tightening, like a noose around the throat of the last living, thinking organism, ascending beyond basic self judgment, embracing those strange strings bound to his every feature, gladly frisking about for the puppeteers. I wonder, if those few, whose delusions fuel the superstitions of many, I wonder if they know, of their part in the great galactic swindle. The blackened remains of our organic souls, the most ancient of follies. A long running joke of existential abandon. They are the procurers. They hold the keys, blameless and trustworthy. Is it an aspect of the human instinct? To chase the howling packs of mysteries that stalk wantonly in the night in search of minds to sap, and devour whole? Creatures forever hidden in the margins, the immortal footnotes of our collective knowledge, wedging themselves against revolving glass doors to open spaces. Obstinate minds burn, and quickly. Ignited by instant gratification: perishable fixtures, easily replaceable. The foolishness of those who embrace infinity like some timeless yarn, tales woven from the wombs of gods, with a starring role just for you. But, in verisimilitude, a pitifully brief cameo in the pantheon of our rock, flying through the cold, black sky. A self sustained closet of chilled tolerance, releasing its vapors for us all to forever breath, never acknowledge. The cloud approached. Some vengeful automaton, strung together by a ridiculous, ancient grimoire of life-law. God? Little more than a slave to the drama he has penned for us and our universe. Beyond oblivion is a towering mirror, suspended. Quivering like severed tentacles in inky blackness is god. He creeps closer to the shining monument. Like all members of the community of sentience, He must know himself. The other deities whisper and gossip, as Yahweh sees himself for the first time. He looks down upon his Earth. His little blue sphere, his pet-project, his hideaway of painful secrets and disastrous experiments. His colony of lepers, that which was once his. He sees the sunset on the cosmic horizon. A fierce, warring red zenith, the thunderhead of prophesied tempests. No prophesies have fallen on his ears, no, for he knows his lot. He knows, as the cloud grows: Inevitably. God looks down because there is no up. No deity to recline upon. He weeps, and with the tears comes the Death of god.
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