Après Nous le Déluge
If the end
comes, as all ends must,
films of trust crumble to crushed dust,
one door
would close like warm hands
about the
throat. Slip, like wet soap
through a palmist’s
hands clasped
in prayer, turn
cards to read faces
on a deck
that was never there.
In unspoken
hues, in silent cries,
in lamb-skip
blinking of blue eyes,
observe the deepening
of the sky
darkest just
before the false dawn.
Just as on
hearing’s periphery
faint footsteps approach in thought,
in rumbles
of far juggernaut,
no
lessons are took in nothing taught,
and those
who came to newly seed,
subtracted nought and nothing heed,
while another door opens like a shutter
on choking flames to wane and gutter.
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