dust

It is the deluge measured in thirst, the famine by the size of each plate. The moon pushes light into eyes staring into the shadows, filling everything with cheap revelation. The span of a reaching branch, the fly sleeping beneath the leaf. Some dazzling beauty caught unaware, a candid photo thieved straight from another life. Something now hung upon a wall, a trophy celebrating trespass. We make virtues from all our crimes, continuing to live in the sickness we will not see.

Spring comes, and almost immediately the battle begins against its bounty. The horrible engines of lawn mowers and leaf blowers, the sprinkler water streaming down the gutters. The ability to adapt becomes the latest bloodletting, the endless sacrifice towards gods of lies and squander. Such waste and fervid destruction shouldn't surprise. What else to expect from these cultures built upon the worship of death?

The strange fruit falls in these towers built from words, over-ripe and riddled with bruises. The deepening errors, the confusion of idea and object, of word and thing, have led us to this precipice. Leaning upon the laws we made ourselves creatures of a vast and foolish faith. We made a virtue of belief over the senses, dogma over fact. What piety we find, lighting all of creation a-fire. What holiness we teach, grinding all of the real world to dust.