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.