End of Days
Posted: Sat Jul 27, 2019 9:42 am
~
End of Days
Trees are kindling, firewood
dragged to urban fire pits, heaped
at the feet of each new Joan of Arc
for final conflagration-–the end of times–-
like the second bookend.
But what of these books to be incinerated–
our days written as pages in pulp mills
rolled flat, dried as leaves crackling
down a cold fall, scrolled to flower hot
in the pages of the Book some would imagine,
as slow sacrifices to the eternal.
In a blazing grove, others watch him,
catalpas and ash leaves whisper his name
on chill breeze. A maple leaf by genetics
he comes late to the powers of cayenne
to the capsaicin ritual, a ceremony
for saving himself from dry crumble and
cardiovascular failure.
First comes brown fade,
small then bigger, hot then blazing.
His heart molts to crimson and molten
red infuses his capillaries like the
very best of martyrs and those who
may still wish in full flush of world alive
to burn at the stake.
And yes, in that blazing maple grove, the reds, yellows
disintegrate as we do, in fading light to brown, dust
or ash – winds always at the ready.
I went to divinity school for this,
and learned to make candy.
Now I think the end of days
will come at night.
~
End of Days
Trees are kindling, firewood
dragged to urban fire pits, heaped
at the feet of each new Joan of Arc
for final conflagration-–the end of times–-
like the second bookend.
But what of these books to be incinerated–
our days written as pages in pulp mills
rolled flat, dried as leaves crackling
down a cold fall, scrolled to flower hot
in the pages of the Book some would imagine,
as slow sacrifices to the eternal.
In a blazing grove, others watch him,
catalpas and ash leaves whisper his name
on chill breeze. A maple leaf by genetics
he comes late to the powers of cayenne
to the capsaicin ritual, a ceremony
for saving himself from dry crumble and
cardiovascular failure.
First comes brown fade,
small then bigger, hot then blazing.
His heart molts to crimson and molten
red infuses his capillaries like the
very best of martyrs and those who
may still wish in full flush of world alive
to burn at the stake.
And yes, in that blazing maple grove, the reds, yellows
disintegrate as we do, in fading light to brown, dust
or ash – winds always at the ready.
I went to divinity school for this,
and learned to make candy.
Now I think the end of days
will come at night.
~