13

 

Honor and reverence for the Muses, breathe ecstatic life into my words.

 

The centre is everywhere, chaos, a chasm, a womb –

Erupting flames of necessary and tragic contingency.

But, there is malice and cruelty in our dank little house of incarceration and death.

No one is looking out for us – wild wolves stalk in the shadows and dance in the light.

There was once a guardian, the last, but he is long dead.

Others claim he never lived or that he merely took over his mantle from the exiled.

There is, it is – we are not, but seem to be, a flame upon the wick of a candle.

All remains all, but each explodes amid incessant spirals, singular flashes –

A contingent spark, born, consumed in the flux of catastrophic fire.

There is, it is – givenness, the life and death of a flower.

The open, the chasm sounds, we dwell within quantum music.

The river does not need us – we are simply here, temporarily.

That each of us was here is an eternal fact with little or no significance.