Tuesday, February 23, 2016


Wrinkle cream in the evening, rivulets of intrusion
scribbling the skin with deep notation, the stygian
reign of a past language cut into walls
with crude instruments like flint spears, delineating, 
a chapter of a god's materialization on earth
so that all quaked and quacked, withdrew into 
the confines of a rock where the fierce intolerance of his rage
could not seemingly reach them, or so they thought.
But then thunderous like a storm the mountains vibrated, 
exploded, and all creatures, crushed under 
the malignant indifference of all god, all 
humans against all humans, never again 
rose, cowered below the shrubbery like lichen

darkened by the merciless granite suffocating the soil. 

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