29. After Death

There is no complaint* anymore, not e'en what is left of your soul; just black and white. I dont have plans*: no choice, no say, no life asI said, not anymore only death. The extent* of my complicity* is failing like the world is burned, burned alive. Now everything I feel is expressed* in the softness of the cave wind - deaths mouth, hollow and gaping, the pleasure* center, the local activity of being*. A list; very long; thick papyrus hide held in the sway of deaths grip, no wind sighs nor rock hears what is said, at the dark gate. [It speaks at last] "This is due*" my desert wit, like a sandy lakebed frozen in time an era where the hogs* parched their thirst from the fountain of dismay - only lost later to the years of red red rust and rosy dust; a prion cloud of fulcrum thrust that drives the stringy world into its baggy lust, all the misremembered names when time holds its own and forgets itself whenworldwide leagues fall asunder; the morphed white plains hit hard by thunder and destiny, the little man* hobbles under the weight of the heavens starscape. Then back to the firelit dawn of hellshine, its vast kingdom of serfs and slaves calling more slaves and serfs no more equal* than freedom.