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letra de 4,500 - archivist

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this ashen curse cannot be
entropic verse; a has been
no poetry can sustain
my blithe acceptance of this vault

i am no martyr of fallen sin
embrace the weight of atlas in
my t-tan fornicates with heavens breath
beheaded in the clouds, we stoop so low
to grovel in the muck in search of the genesis
of every fault line

i could wake them all from slumber?
engage their promethean brains

sacrifice futures intent to sate my loneliness
discuss the semiotics of each act
the pantomime, the farce, the extinction event
we might laugh and toast our victory
we chewed the scenery, we made a meal of it

ladies
gentleman
gentlekin

hyperthermia
is but a p-ssing thing
please take comfort in

the last living thing
invites you to
this travesty
please take a seat

let us ruminate
engage those intellects
bridge the suspicions
behind our decisions

hands grace the gl-ss of cold coffin
i tease histories out of icicles
this person i do not even know
whose serenity is pleasing to me

the irony of fear of life, and the abject fear of death
the hex of consciousness deserves a moments breath
to savour the warm resonance of memetic arrest
to dwell in a single shard of our collective voice

we have found a rhythm, and we find it in the strata below
we accept this fiction, paradox of schrödinger’s theorem
to have died and risen, and exist in oblivion
abeyance strides across a great expanse

- archivist

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