128

Hot nights trickle across time breathlessly,

especially when people isolate
and put themselves on islands, hopelessly
putting their faith in dreams that can’t create:
This is the divide: between vision and
decision, between sight and mind or skill;
One hand: a barren field of rock and sand;
The other hand: the sea and an oil spill:
I guess that’s the catch: we make to unmake,
though the scope of the matter slides away,
out of our hand and it burns in our wake,
razing our earth with a byzantine spray:
We are diabolical creators;
Half-man, half-light, we are sadist satyrs.
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2 Responses to 128

  1. kittiekills says:

    Did you mean hopelessly*?

  2. Rudy G says:

    I did. Thanks! (Unfortunately, editing messes up the layout! Oh well…)

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