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Apocalypse 3



How fortunate we are
to witness the end,
so much more certain,
if so much more confused,
than the beginning.

Why should I listen to the narrators,
when their false contexts make stories
worse than lies, make them useless,
of little use, unusable?

What I feel without thinking,
what I think without feeling,
what I do without either—
I disavow.

We can't remember the days
because the days are all exactly the same
and we only notice (and, thus, only can recall)
what happens, what changes,
what becomes, what disappears.

Refute the continuity illusion:
everything is renewed!
Until it is not,
and then it is ended.

But it was constantly stopped
before, between restarts,
refreshes, reassignment,
and realignment.

The commentators love the narrators,
because they can't bear to be alone,
to feel alone, unconnected, uncontained.

The soul is not the soul, they say,
until it is tired, worn down from abuse,
from privation, from care.

Whichever trap captures
you, it doesn't matter.
It's all traps, and it's almost inevitable
to fall to one or another.

If I remember correctly,
all I ever wanted
was a word in my memory
recounting an apocalypse of joy.

Whosoever said
let there never be world enough or time,
know them to be the enemy of all things;
never condone, never forgive.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.