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Marc B. Adin
Shadow Hunting: A phantasm of world's end
the weather was too
warm for winter
which reeked of steaming, hot, bloated death, whispering,
"what became of the darkness?"
the heat allowed
the replication
of many organisms
known and unknown
to extend beyond
what had fevered them before.
the night dimmed,
sunrise delayed, confounding
the lost miners
of the soul.
a small movie replayed
the final scene
without end.
"is he dead yet?"
"no, he is laughing,"
growled the chorus.
had summer trumped winter?
the red foreign fungi
streaked across
the burnt valleys
and
annamese mountain chain
as if the landscape
were a martian swampland.
the day mistaken,
the month aborted,
the year troubled,
the century still born of
chaotic slaughter,
it defied the imagination for
reality.
and leapt into the roiling
flood to seek baptism, death,
resurrection,
and a reign supreme.
i lost the remnants
of the blooded garment,
the battle's death
inhaled the majesty and, at last,
found its comforting rest.
toward noon
the second hand slowed
its sweep and then
stopped.
the ships
drifted beyond the
morbid hands and we
asked strangers for their
brilliant yellow drink.
"no," they said.
broken and wretched,
the comet had not appeared.
but it was only friday,
there was much time left,
but they, too,
stopped and vanished into the moonlit sun..
pontius pilate, rebuffed, asked again.
but no message was he given to carry.
only branded
by truth and redemption, he could lie no longer.
from nothing
grew everything
then everything brought
nothing.
wide eyed we
scowled at the void
yet still
death came
as the twin charges
side by side
brothers
of drooling
suicide.
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