“This Is The Way The World Ends, Not with a bang, but a whimper.” T.S. Eliot
And what is there to tell the world; Heard words make bones that shudder. The silent, waking eye sees the sun, in sparkling splendor. The eternal now speaks with words of languishing memory. It speaks of living flesh. What a tale it has to tell. The death, and the life and soaring flight Of birds upon wings of words. We die of wounded heart, not bone. The marrow of a dying man, who lives and dies in bed, will serve as nourishment for the worms. He eats and sleeps and drinks the cup of potioned, portioned, poisoned love. Eat and drink, human. Tomorrow the wine will be gone. What tale, then, indeed, will you tell? Armed men hate flowers? Girls get pregnant, feeling lonely? He that sins will die a sinner? What tales will the sinner tell? The gap between lies exists. The chain of truth has broken, long before daylight threatened night. Darkness lives after the light dies, but always comes again. It is a long time since a Savior walked and prayed. It is a long time since water split in two. It is a long time since humans learned to kill. And what, indeed, tales are to be told? In the end there will beone slightly used and broken down, peeling, aging, dying world for sale
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