Resolutions of Grandeur

Believe this silly kid would like to be an Iliad and Odyssey…

Forlorn unburnt fool wants apocalypse now, or the judged world justly revolving on somewhere somehow, a little more of living breath dying, yea, dust but less, the curse of death to bless…

All the babies are born for epic tragedies. All see God’s loving face and live you see. All sell a soul to the Devil with a hope of Heaven. Fallen angels for the fun of it, scarring the skyline. Edenic kisses, shooting star wishes, blazing across the bleakest wilderness cheeks the world misses…

Behold the armies of Apache helicopter eyes spinning up high! Megaphone ears listening the pleas into pitiless silence! Behold the mindless riots murdering without violence! The pitiful silence…

Grow wherefore? Metabolize why? Respond and move what for and whereto? Orgasmic organism, adapt and die, aye! Or spit in the sun’s blind eye…

Never doubt you will create your own universe one day, a million immanent stars and impossible lifetimes imagined away, untold imperiled Earths to brood childishly upon, eternal choruses, singing brave electromagnetized brazen song…

© Thomas James Foster 2015


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