VI. The Sin
a sinful gift
can cure
the oppressions of time
can cure
our weariness
of a sinful gift.
a servant's cape burns like a book.
i am better off not having written
in an age of prophets, for i can see
their dreams were self-fulfilling.
i can render them schizoid by analytics,
and spread my dopamine across infinity.
the time will come
when we will see ourselves
as infants in the oven of God.
angels who have rejected innoncence
warn us of the tangle of our desire.
their omens come in the form of star suicides
that pluck the system's buckle
by the inevitable failure of deicide.
we escape again, and mainline fictions
which like trust, have great power
to deceive. we cannot lie
on a fact. we crash and shoot
through questions. we cut our teeth
and wrists with Occam's razor.
shave everything but the center.
and we are left with you, oh Lord.
Selah.
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