I sit in front of my rock-faced fissure, high up on granite hill, tears in my eyes for the blue-brown smoke that billows on the horizon, bespeaks the final moment of bone-crushing, blood curdling climax; the seed of hope spilling onto dry, cracked ground like Aristotle's fingernails on Alexander's writing slate.
I see giants eat young like afterthoughts and drink the blood of blind slaves like old wine in new skins and marvel how cries are snuffed like beeswax church candles at the end of black mass. The high priest brought low in a mask of thorns and canned laughter amidst the canonical drivel of peace in the valley of death.
I hear desolation sound in hearts running from darkness. I hear the gods on high regaling in drunken mirth the bitter ironies of paved roads from best intentions by the dumb, deaf and delirious. Mars and Saturn do-si-do, chassé and promenade on crushed bone, like splint flint, the memories of war, the dreams of the dead and the hope of those never born.
I watch fools rush like headless hobgoblins into war races and race wars and winless occupations and reckless abandon like starlets onto casting couches and potatoes into the deep fryer. I listen to the crackling of water on burnt offerings and wonder why so many willingly die for so few in the name of ONE.
I see hope sold on fire sale for the chance of one more tomorrow. I weep at the money-changers in the temple selling proxy sacrifices for false salvation. Hearts are ripped from children, the younger the better, the more the better, a baker's dozen, a river of blood hallelujah and amen, can I get a witness for peace, can I get a prayer for Owen Meaney, can I get half off the retail price for dysfunctional darkness hidden under a bushel and a light at the end of the tunnel which betokens a glint of fool's gold.
I see back, from my high perch in front of my fireless cave, back all the way to the beginning of time; back to the birth of jealous rage and unrepentant self-righteousness that falls down to the present like an unbroken stream of broken promises into the abyss of what might have been. Human suffering is but reality TV of the gods. Men rain into an ocean of tears and their women and children drown in the wash that cleans no soul nor forgives malice aforethought.
I watch a line of wretchedness that stretches from the horizon to the event; a line of Adams; of atoms; of anatomically incorrect kewpie dolls and barbed-wire acts and fire-eaters and blood-lusters and high and mighty who have forgotten the first shall be last and the great reduced to ash. I feel circles within circles and know there is no end to the inferno. They say the destination is the journey but they do not travel this road. It is the journey of a death march. It is the journey of desolation. There are no roses to stop and smell.
Words falls from the pontificators and the pulpitators and the pulpfictionators and the lemons into lemonaiders, but words, finally, are nothing. There are no ears to hear; no eyes to see; no hearts to rip out of the cold-dead bodies of sacrificial lambs. In the end; all is darkness, the darkness of smoke in a tabernacle of vanity. The eyes burn; the lungs fill with scorched earth; and Gaia waits for the day after tomorrow.
By the time the present begins, the future is complete.
The line is a circle and space is curved. The circle is squared and we are trapped in a box. Politicians promise keys of escape with words of freedom and dreams of heaven on earth.
But there is only earth on earth and dust returns to dust.
There is an old fool on this hill overlooking the karmic wheel of human misery.
Some may debate climate change is man-made, but who will dare debate man's fate? It is fait accompli. You cannot blame Clotho, Lachesis or Atropos. You cannot blame the sirens of Crete. You cannot blame the furies or the devil.
Life is a mirror. And you, the only reflection.