the death of magic
embittered by the reward we gave up so much to achieve, it tasted thus, not so sweet
desiring from the chaos of the words that they coalesce into some mystic meaning
the rhythms move us, and no one will question why, no one will hold anything back
having been alive for thousands of years, but having only been awake for five minutes
we are smaller than some of the sadnesses that will not let us go, as we try to forget
that which burns in us gathers all its voices, then loses sound in the wondering of itself
what precious perversion keeps us in doing what is right, facilitates the murdering?
the utter frustration: we want to be heard so badly because we have nothing to say
shook loose from the heavens in an accidental finality, the dream of all that was lost
we desired rightly, then lost ourselves in search, stranded in the ocean of ourselves
coming around to the beginning of nothing, ending in twitching, arbitrary abruptness
it makes sense of it all: we were awakened in the middle of a perpetual dying, a flash
we turn around in place, and the whole scenery changes when we get back into place
indeed we did it to ourselves, all the tomorrows we made from this unmade today
the holler lost in the howl of time blowing by, an unknown smile in the distant past
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