You can see the world,
vast, changing
and, with civil chagrin,
unsurprising.
The ancient worlds,
they are lost,
rotting between fire and ice.
You read it in the books,
in lyceums in the stars.
But absent god you are
of regions
where mounting freedom comes with cost.
You're paralyzed;
time has always felt divine.
But, mortal, time does nothing
but grow old and
melt with age.
And ivy, like creeping sentries,
weep
and storm
this untidy, opposite planet.
The sun that sets
is a black hole
as it eats away
at the calendar of days.
We claw and gasp, we grasp at winds
that wither
and release.
You’re weeping now
in cadence
with the chimes of wrecking sea,
with waves that flicker vast and nigh
and curl into another
fallen world.