this is how the world ends. it begins.
At the root, lightning gathers moss
and the surge
deepens the horizon's applause.
we die for the cause; bewildered as we choose
to arise, or lift off -
the unearthed
to one
worse -
than the one
we're from.

a loose grain of rice
in the chamber of our starvation,
plump from the tears of our elation
that someday
will be the
Last Day...
and that will be,
an ironic
Occasion.

Because Night will follow.