The Final Sigh of Icarus

they move like a procession. falling into a slow line. dancing in black time. bottling out of what isn't. to become what will never be. the excluded will become the excluding. taken in parts. the damned won't stay damned. they will bless each other to death. we must be in a state of perdition in order to attain salvation.

so waste away we must.

my feet lie in fire. my eyes lie in snow. factories are born out of a bottomless pit. producing plastic. in a gyre of marine litter that the engine reflects. a comfort of conjoined pollution dislodged in the bottom of a value, a chemical sludge like a pit filling with a fart, it bubbles up into a praying dream. god is tending the landfill of infinity. our bones. the industrial region of an uninhabited earth. the machines move still. dancing out of an abyss of plucked flowers. our tools have become our inheritors. blessed in the same sediment that we mortgage our children to.

we fetishize the virtues that save ourselves and laugh in a symphony of echolocation. seeking out our own voices in a endless cave. a spirit penetentiary.

if we are bright stars bound in the chains of darkness all of our allegories will employ a cave. if we are chained by a knowledge that our own souls behold then our allegories will be transformations. if our souls are schizoid, rejecting and damning that which we're afraid of, we will tell stories of sheep and goats and sacrifice the lambs which feed at the mountain. seeking those who suffer to enter the cave. and suffer those who wish to change.

no soul would invest in a religion of despair but our hearts are too jaded to buy a rapture which is painless. the voiceless prepare an eden of echoes and Eve's eyes evade the mirror that caught Narcissus and pulled him under. the waters in a feedback loop that strangled a man into the destiny of a flower. his name forever devouring the rain. like the god of revelation who consumes the cries of the oppressed in the fire of a prayed for rage. the enraged have sold us a mythology of fire. sit back and pray for rain.

have we been given any problems that dopamine and seratonin cannot cure? can the drug of infinity bubble out of a radioactive eden? then sleep is the cure for our existential ennui like those who have been buried alive. bullied by their own inertia. they will be governors to the rebirth of reason.

clean slates. fresh starts. the art of illusionists. vain guts. distorted mirrors. the ultimate language of a forgotten eden. a fallen icarus. boyish and pure. whose only sin is arrogance. who inherits earth, wind, air, and fire. assailing himself as he inhales the godhoods of a spoiled star. hints of newton haunt about the act. we built ourself on napalm nights. appreciating a magic that we can analyze down to an atom. the rushing of fire and clouds. a blinding star cries. and we are tied to our dreams. projecting. we are nailed to a human wall. a wall of names.