Falling Barometers in the Quake of When

How it began is how it must end. For all jesters in the courts of fickle kings. For all atoms drawn together. For all travellers through the myopic stare of flesh. Blindness is not an affliction. Sight bears its sweet fruits. And we indulge what we can. It rots. As we swell with its sugar. It rots. And nothing the same will ever grow. It is the beginning and the end.

Loyal to each catastrophe. And bound by the pink deep in the threads of these muscles. We indulge the circle. As it indulges us. Start. Finish. One in the same. What lies between them our only true possessions.

A hundred eyes on the graves. Where the dead pretend to sleep. Soft puppets that fill my palms with dirt. Scar my fingers with their rigid strings. A threaded grin for the future. As we absolve it to this paradox. The circle insists. As I skulk this stage before my empty audience. Laboring in this moment. Dry river beds and still oceans.

The curtain descended. I wait for applause. For laughter. Or derision. But the future, like the past, is deaf.

The earth still moves. The weather still changes. but this darkness is constant.