the resistant does clatter
its ends against the machinery,
it does so clunk and rattle
against the current which runs through
to the chosen one, the
Brother of Entropy, his unwavering
foot-heel in the doorway
between Insanity, and Stability.

He does, however,
take some time away from
his breathing, amounting
to a few moment’s silence.

In this cold night, he
holds no name or title. Not yet.
The world is not ready for
his being, and his being
remains underdeveloped enough
that its energy is just shy of a sunlight’s beam

and so he sings
to the empty halls,
the resistant current,
the rusted gears,
                           “Where do the old souls go?
                             Here? There? Or inbetween?
                             Do we matter to matter? Are
                             we warm and foreboding enough
                             to bear resistance to the dark?”

The dark dances
between candlelight. Brother, father, creator:
it means nothing to that which
cannot see goodness, or light.

And so he breathes again,
and shoves his boot further through
the door