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The Shadowcasters




we long (why?) to approach close enough to stars
esoteric hysteria desire for terror nonsentient
sentinels' blame without fault seeking the shadowcasters
that they might chastise us with blindness

we may fail because we have
domesticated what we needed wild—
give medals to the insubordinate!

to resist is to lose—
don't resist, refuse

pursuing the sound of sound,
the color of color,
the taste of taste,
is missing the point—
diminuendo

once you've been held—
once you've been held down—

ember in amber,
remember?

entropy requires heathens in heaven—
a haven of loss as much as hell is—
none who understand would go there

what we are offered now
are opportunities to repeat our battles
unto perfection to swing
and swing again with improving aim
achieving ever-finer ratings of destruction
while holding back the final launch
that instigates the end—
soldiers are boring

we can pretend to sate
our hatreds in inconsequent release
though in so doing we reveal
the fuel that daily chars the walls
around our hearth, the same we rejected
when victims victorious we took the lease

what fool said hell is based on fire?
fire effects change, alters matter without restraint,
while hell is permanence
permitted no change ever—
forced to close
in the midst of opening

damnation is the judgment that you never did
what you should have done
and your chance is gone

I say error should fall away
fault without blame
where accomplishment aggregates

to heel and ankle affix thy fangs!
your bite will abide without distinction
among my incidental wounds,
decorating my stride with faithless filth,
elaborate inscription, which rises
not to vex my navigation along
the route of well-doing

the question of whether I belong
in heaven (or in hell) is moot until
I'm made to want one or the other

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