TheOmegaPoint

As a billion years of shuffling single Cards was required to evolve the hands Used today, we the descendants content Ourselves with trust in flowing blithely on, With failing to question such convention, Which, for us, is practically immortal. Yes, yes, the sun also changes, and each   Circle resolves to a spiral.  We know. Still this lodestar sways, points its compass rose         At pathological orthodoxy.   Soft basins lure, harmonious repose Tugs our feet.  Blind submission it demands, Faith unchecked we supply, and the cycle Cinches tighter toward paradoxy. Driven, pleasure-obsessed, unto preach What passes as wisdom reduces us: Comfo

Perhaps the most curious thing is our Highly tuned ability to carry  Around naked contradictions, convince A beneficiary that we mean No harm, even abutting the moment Of action.  It was through this glorious Capacity you seduced me, with me  Remaining wholly convinced the one sane Recourse being your swift destruction, since, If there is time for safety, then surely, There should be time enough for enjoyment As well.  But near misses, how would we know The line’s plot that insists this is too much. Yes, I am warned, the fire, not to touch,   Resist pleasure luring in burning hands. My Angel of the Lord, none shine bright

The heart moves faster and who would refuse What is freely given up for taking? Experience reads opportunities Rarely strike more than once, so why not choose To indulge any little advantage? This is how we rationalize losing Paradise over a pang of hunger.   It was a hard won lesson: all gifts are Curses.  But from my position, reason Falls useless; reason led me to this place. Some promises end as apologies: This time you found out that finding out Means you can’t go back in.  The dizzying Roar of the new world cast us far apart. We both latched our fortune on the first star Nodding by:  one to morn, the other, night. Never again w

Thanks to the advent of manacles forged Only for the mind, my hands are set free To toil in their new manual labor, Which destroys our bodies by idleness, Breeding different kinds of man, who know To thrive in cages, revel inside this Agoraphobic troglodytic life, Caught with obligation, promise, honor. Even here, I look over my shoulder, Maintain constant vigilance, and suffer The kind of sore restlessness that leeches Itself through muscles to deeper structures. Focus blurs, discomfort twists a knife Through flow, slitting a small place in the thing Staying...curious metamorphosis, Not quite painful, merely an ache, although I cannot hel

More is more and victory is written By the survivors of history—should We want, could be, it any other way?   In our blind scramble for meaning, mere truth Is glossed, groped over for favoring The comfort of surer handholds.  But hand And fist and soon the face is left behind— No tautology can pull tight enough To bootstrap against gravity.  After Shock, blood returns, bearing the gift-turned-curse Of sight.  We soon long to crawl back beneath The hood, to be saved from the broad terror Lurking in daylight.  But the wind whips much Too strong.   Eyes are pried open, behold The ground and, though no amount of squinting Could

Was it that long ago I first set foot On foreign shores, sure of coming glory, Where the mantle would throw itself on me And as I walked, so the others followed. Though the road needed was hardly yet dreamt, With or without doubt we would build, would break As necessary, to blaze, cut passes Through foothills, carving holds across mountains Until we reached the highest peak and down Before us spread all creation and seize That precise moment, knowing it was ours. So had we not achieved the goal set out By God, for one of his fingers to draw The hanging circle shut?  But there were worms
 In the apple, the line snagged and choked, I Saw&

This, the harvest of the latest crop,   Cleaves toward us, we who were born to autumn,   Where time unwinds, is ever falling back On the labyrinthine lord clock that ticks     Down through multitudes, to indifference,       Spirals confused for circles, going gone As the serpent slowly slurps up its slack.     What more can be said for naked physics,     But fat and scum both rise to the top?     We are ruled by these laws, the world turns on Inertia, nothing is created nor       Destroyed that doesn’t blindly follow from     A turnkey calculus of properties.   Mistakes and then consequences and this   Is history, never quite repe

In neglect, with sufficient exposure,   A conspiracy of elements worm Through this shoddy needlework, And now freed, the threads have begun their great Unravelling.  When circles enough Complete, the bottom comes apart, spilling Phoenixish wisps of ash, fanning the flame Unleashed as smoke to sky to seed clouds, now Thunderheads erupting with bloody rain. But deserts cannot so soon accept such A boon.  Rivers pour forth, watershed fields Will flood, rotting the harvest, changing what   Would have been bread into whiskey.  Poisoned With this liquor, the excess rolls downhill, To intermingle with the sea.  Dead fish Fill up the ocean and the

Did even in Plato’s allegory The audience of antiquity hold Their ideals so naively to think The elder statesmen of Atlantis had Not known of their nation’s fate to be swept Beneath the waves, to be relegated To myth and obscurity?  While the self- Ruled men of Athens might have fancied Their decisions above far-removed Kings,   Surely they must have nearly understood A difference exists between free-will And providence.  For why else would so few Of them sit in voluntary session That the disenfranchised were mustered up To drive them to their duty?  They knew The idea that reality forms Through consensus to be absurdity. And

We run to the cup of pleasure to dowse Out unhappy embers--a ritual Against the wildfire of sorrow, Which ravishes even the greatest souls If allowed to take hold.  This fear smoulders, The lack of control, to be pulled inside The churning vortex always held within Reach--its smoking tendrils bleed their awful Heat, a heat we feel only during times Of quiet reflection, alone, or twisted Under not-quite-unbroken dreams, our beds Become tourniquets to seal in the night, A darkness that makes us yearn for any Light, including those cast by the flickers Of anguish, because that meager glow, though Painful to bear, overruns extinction. Eventuall