February 17, 2017
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We stand here,
By the opening of the rapture.
With the ghosts of our past,
Held in our grasp.

The touch of life,
That left us eternally changed,
Adorns a skin of light and gold,
That we so fervently hold.

But which becomes tarnished,
With the storm of the clock,
And we fall on our knees,
And relent against the breeze.


We beat on against the drapes,
That encompass us whole.

And we cry out against
The thrashing of the winds:
“Why, why?
Why must it be nigh?

“If we were to call henceforth
The wasted memories of our minds,
And turn them over, alive and brightened,
Turn them over, from dust to diamond,

“Could we not stay here?
Could this not be forever?”

But the tempest answers:
“My hands are not to spindle
This turbulence, this calamity.
I, too, am saddened by this atrophy.

“I, too, stare out
Into the grey, endless sky

“This grey, endless sky of a mad deity,
Who plays this mad game of life of death,


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