William Blake


It seems so pointless, a sun with
a messiah complex, and moons
that hang in effigy, a momentary
exhibition, posing for pictures
in the planet gallery; a machine
creating miracles, atomic tricks
of mass-production, so close
and yet so far away, in deep
dimensions of obscurity, a puzzle
shedding pieces from the center,
molecules in perfect order in the
chaos of de-construction, every
breath, first to last, just a fading
soliloquy, quietus dissolving into
soft stratifications, and in an
instant, the universal crush of the
divine comes soliciting your flesh.

Tim Jeski

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