Endtime Stories

 
 
 
I have vast wealth of food and drink,
more than one would need in a week,
and nothing to do but play as I like, glide free.
The end of days is better than it might seem.
It’s ok to smile,
our right to feel fine
as we slide
forever
out of time
 
beyond belief.
 
Still seeking revenge for my birth
by fading away
without worth or meaning.
Lazy, ungrateful, no useful purpose.
Unable to simply give in to being.
 
What if it’s not about reciprocity,
velocity, jealousy masked as scorn?
What if the secret unsheathed is
once conceived, gestated, born
random occurrences synthesize as stories?
Phantom worries, gnawing remorse
coalesce as lessons, stake the course;
but only synapse deep, lightly tangled weave.
Tales like talismans gently spin. Tell me,
tell me, tell me my name and my mission.
It can’t be my decision. I am too weak,
too tame.
 
Flickers, auroras in peripheral vision,
gleam flits, firefly beams, crystal
gems emitting signals in dark and light.
Constellations in the night corralling chaos.
Prayer, meditation, fast of purity, breath
centered on the wind, stillness, serene.
Not a lake, but a river, flow of history.
 
These stories, told as if we know,
as if they are the campfire that formed us
from mud and mystery.
These are not our essence.
We are the salt, the river, the casting stones,
ever falling from the sea.
.
.
.
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