Epiphany

Ours is the age of grotesque.
we make our own way
through the gates.
Centuries of fear
shall bind us no longer.
The best laid plans of slavish children
never tied us to forgotten stars.

Lo, we are among you
as you make time to criticize your elders
and their machinations of submission
sublimated
and plastered to the window
to behold the descent
of their death cults
as the generations grow dim;
alzheim-istic.

So you lash out
against taboo
and question holy books
everyone of you a fraud
somehow the point slipped
as sand through your fingertips.

Caught up in the drudgery
of dragging the chains
that bind you to a life of servitude.
You challenged one master
only to grovel before another.

When all that was required
was for you to stand
to face the inaudible void
and join the masquerade.

Dogmas of religion
replaced by fiction
preparing the way
according to the perceptions
of insightful yet xenophobic
twentieth-century writers
under-appreciated and lost to the ages.

This is the age of grotesque.
of unmaking
and unwinding the solar current
into the insular abyss.
And with open eyes,
self-implosion
shall set the stars alight.

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