Chaos lashed out,
And brought about
Phantasms which dwell on the edge of doom,
with their silhouettes, sly in their bloom,
seductively twirling, entwined and coiled,
by which blood can be boiled.
And the gloom profound
choked out the sound.
Now with the penultimate darkness wrought,
I wonder, is it what we sought?
As with it so endlessly unbound,
we were what it found
Crawling on that verge, avoiding the surge,
at the furthest stretches of the Demiurge.
Yet in light, where shadows are amiss,
there cannot be found a cyanide kiss.
And what if one ought to die?
In twitches of a final little death,
Perspiring and inchoate,
and yes, with a cry!
That of joy, which only a vicissitude of fate can employ,
Thus revealing its tragic skein:
That though cathartic pain,
should be a teacher,
It is merely a preacher,
leaving his immortal stain.
All is Vanity by C. Allan Gilbert. Photo: Wikimedia Commons