written by an artist too shy to pen his name to a story too big for one man
words bigger than one world.
We walk halfway through the final chapter, (the good book has a hell of an ending) though,
so few have the courage to read
Fire, destruction, consumption,
only the drooling street preachers have the wit to say it
throats scratched from screaming themselves silent
yet, there it is, staring us down in verse.
And how amazing would that have been to have written Revelations
and then what do you write, cook books?
But, to know the ending, to know what’s coming so intimately, must be a form of madness
that only the mad can endure. Like life is something that only the dead can overcome.
are a consumption of opposites
man and woman breeding life, night and day breeding one
of the sun.