and what of these beasts

defanged and starved

   dehorned and vulnerable 

     and what of all we've built

deformed by fire

fragile and brittle

   fingers grasping at the sky

whatever gods in gold and

     light

whatever devils in silver

     gloom

   they’ve turned their backs 

and they have abandoned us

their most promising 

     and beloved

   enterprise 

     we've pulled the whole 

of this gifted apparatus 

   down and around our feet

bewitched in cogito

     self-assuredly we trampled 

   the life from it

in the remaining ash and dust 

   pressing down

onto our crooked and 

     peeled nape

     we the vessels of undiminishing

disappointment in disheveled 

   and brazen locutions

     wail out our laments

and all those beasts

     and whatever of the

remaining birds

  mock our petitions 

and trace the gentle arcs of 

     necessity and annihilation 

               it is past 4 am

       or almost 

                    4

or somewhere in between

           and you ask-

what are you doing

                up at this hour?

-well, I'm making my descent.

           and I've been at it 

     for hours. 

                       weeks,

        years even.

then the silence befalls

              and at such an hour

     it is immaculate 

                          and total.

               seductive

   and beguiling

i know no secrets,

           i am not privy to this

       or any other wonderment

                 

             for decades 

   i've made my attempts

                but only really entered

 grief 

           and woe 

                            and hurt.

                     intentioned or not

     it is what has occurred.

               this descent 

has no bottom,

                       no real end.

despite its

              unbearableness  

       it continues,

  it beckons.

         i am no monster

              i am worse;

                     a being with ambition,

  envious and lost

i see i am 

              a murderer 

      of dreams

              and they've 

                                  left me.

           i hold their vacancy 

  as if it wasn't 

                         just emptiness;

            a hollowed-out shell 

                                       i mistake 

       for the glory 

                             of my soul.