Spring beckons in Arcadia
zero point of sidereal time
maybe of time itself
demic* in his appearance
has put down his pipes
There is to be no playing
for the apocalypse
Too riveting it’s gaze
even for a God
who has seen it all before
Too mesmerising its own song
as it whistles nonchalantly
into each isolated nightmare
the veneer of security
the thin veil of believed control
the door to the abyss
how to sit with chaos
the end of life as we knew it?
book your online class now!
virtual connection is the new real
or is it?
beneath the covid hum
beneath the chatter of our times
beneath the wheel of life’s turning
is it we only who are crushed?
perhaps it is life itself that is flattened
a levelling of the land on a scale never witnesssed before
wry smiles from the ghots of Walwyn, Overton, Lilburne and Prince.
in all endings a beginning
Kali Yuga sees and seeds a future unknown but possible
here in the eerie silence of metropolis the wind can now be heard
there is a sound of breath landing in the body of the planetary family
a sigh so deep it echoes a collective memory
death will take some and indiscriminately too
but a hope is being murmered here on the land
a song of faith
darkest hours and dawns
The pipes the pipes are calling.
Written for the prompt at Earthweal
demic (not comparable)