this is
the one,
until the next one.

in a field
of wild flowers
emblazoned in
white
violets and
pale golds,
all with names
but i do not
know them,
beneath the
rumbling clouds
and thunderous
winds they whisper
to me - how
is it
that
you
are still
standing? -
and we crane
and scan the
darkened dome
above us for
just a single ray
- a single one -
of pure and smiling
light to pink
the caliginous
gloom. gasping
at the threatening
darkness while
the bones of
our soi disant
saints
and kings
liquefy to
spite
and pitch.

and in the glow
of the easy
and pure -
you will forget
the words of
things -
catching the dust
of stars
and suns in your
swimming eyes

the fix
is in.
was in.
the scheme
worked out
way before
you learned
sit up
and gaze,
learned
to punch
a clock
or discern things
decent and indecent.
surrender the
remnants.
dance without
rhythm or joy.
rending a heart
with feigned
tragedy and
a slow
but persistent
dissolution.
this we've come
to call
iniquity,
measured and
recorded throughout
millennia.