First Fly Over of the Abyss
Every thousand years or so, give or take a millennium or two, the civil leaves the civilization and what remains is the pitiless and pathetic. From these dregs of the unfortunate few there arises new ideas of what comprises the reality that we see and what is really worth remembering. It is but a time of stone and tears, a slow parade of fire and fears, and from the ashes rises anew, the next coronation of the king or queen, who charges us with zeal and idolatry. I do not believe we have seen this yet, it is closer at hand than we would like it to be, but we are not nearly advanced enough to be on the brink of utter destruction quite yet.
I've read the signs and they point to the coast, from which may come a terrible host, full of cheer and good tidings, and yet he appears not to be quite ready to reveal. It is not certain that it will not be the sister we all dread, the ill fated whore from whom we were all bred, or it might be sullen boy who is to be trumpeted as the next savior, but either way, it is not here yet, at least not in this generation.
All state religions boast of knowing who will post the next destroyer, and when they will happen to the constituents of their chosen favor. They know nothing new, for bronze age ghost hold no truths, and they were long past due their expiration date. The times they may be changing, but less the chance that ancient tales are applicable, when houses are built on dust, their foundations will falter and crush the builders beneath them. Buried yet beneath the sand are timeless jewels of another hand, provided one can see the grain, and not the beach it makes up.
As water dilutes the poisons spilled, and air pollutes our mindless toil, we see not the rot and spoil of the past that still dictates our final stand. If a sage of a thousand years, were to state that today he would hold no fears, we would greatly exalt his wisdom while ignoring the value of our own time space continuum. As time holds no dominion here, but a measure of space and fears, and how well we are organized, and if we know the righteous ways, of houses that still hold sway, with terms written before a hand could hold charcoal, or tap with stone in clay or bone, and know the truth is yet to be told, through story both new and old, and the silence like darkness is far to great, to know completely before it is too late, and you are long now past the point of listening, for this stream of consciousness is but a spark in the vast universe of negative space.
This is for those that wonder, are we done, can we stop the pebble before it rolls down the mountain, or are we but pawns in the greater game, and have no control over our fates, and the answer is as simple as this, yes, to all of them.
I've read the signs and they point to the coast, from which may come a terrible host, full of cheer and good tidings, and yet he appears not to be quite ready to reveal. It is not certain that it will not be the sister we all dread, the ill fated whore from whom we were all bred, or it might be sullen boy who is to be trumpeted as the next savior, but either way, it is not here yet, at least not in this generation.
All state religions boast of knowing who will post the next destroyer, and when they will happen to the constituents of their chosen favor. They know nothing new, for bronze age ghost hold no truths, and they were long past due their expiration date. The times they may be changing, but less the chance that ancient tales are applicable, when houses are built on dust, their foundations will falter and crush the builders beneath them. Buried yet beneath the sand are timeless jewels of another hand, provided one can see the grain, and not the beach it makes up.
As water dilutes the poisons spilled, and air pollutes our mindless toil, we see not the rot and spoil of the past that still dictates our final stand. If a sage of a thousand years, were to state that today he would hold no fears, we would greatly exalt his wisdom while ignoring the value of our own time space continuum. As time holds no dominion here, but a measure of space and fears, and how well we are organized, and if we know the righteous ways, of houses that still hold sway, with terms written before a hand could hold charcoal, or tap with stone in clay or bone, and know the truth is yet to be told, through story both new and old, and the silence like darkness is far to great, to know completely before it is too late, and you are long now past the point of listening, for this stream of consciousness is but a spark in the vast universe of negative space.
This is for those that wonder, are we done, can we stop the pebble before it rolls down the mountain, or are we but pawns in the greater game, and have no control over our fates, and the answer is as simple as this, yes, to all of them.
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