Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Bones of a fallen world

It is said that the future is unwritten. That there are no promises. Every choice made now, effects the future. The fluttering of a butterfly's wings in Mexico, perhaps will result in a hurricane in Brazil.

But I was given a dream, no, a nightmare.  I woke with a vision of the future.  A virus was born from the tragedies of conflict, poverty, and hate.  Fear of the virus would soon rule human interaction, lives, and empires. As cruel of a reign as Death had previously, the virus now held the throne.  Despair was the table upon which the few survivors would sup.

With winged sandals of Hermes, with the wings upon a pegasus, soar above the earth and see the burning clouds, from the mass of pyres that were used to cremate the remains of humanity.   The skies were torn asunder with fire, black, and storms.

Every single breath taken had to be begged for, as if the oxygen were gone.  The wealthy and the poor were finally equal, the virus that burned, killed without prejudice.   The earth will collapse under its own weight of sorrow. The bones of the skeletal remains, now cracked upon after death so that the scavengers could suck the marrow.  The wrath of our indulgences repaid upon our children, the legacies of our failures castrate the generations that come.

When the earth has been drained of resources, and the land is no longer able to provide, for those who have survived, if not thrived, there will be a reckoning.  Wars among the survivors pour out the final wine from the vintage, and no one is spared. Poet warrior Archillochus spoke the truth "Ares is a democrat. There are no privileged people. on a battlefield." 

  "The death-change comes.
Death is another life. We bow our heads
At going out, we think, and enter straight
Another golden chamber of the king's,
Larger than this we leave, and lovelier.
And then in shadowy glimpses, disconnect,
The story, flower-like, closes thus its leaves.
The will of God is all in all. He makes,
Destroys, remakes, for His own pleasure, all."

Philip James Bailey, Festus 

Who are we to question our purpose, when we have only sought to fill our bellies over full?  When greed is considered the righteous motive to progress?  Upon death, there will be symphonies, no choral anthems, or choirs singing grieving songs.  When the world dies we will not be worth having been here, for Eden we had.  And sorrow we earned.

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