The End It Knows Well


A beast in the chasm of art that rumbles and ruptures
Pretty pieces and placid scenes
Not knowing exactly where to
Start
But the end, it knows well
Filled is its little finger with enough sorrow to cripple
A thousand men, yet it thinks of breathing as
Swell
Tell God what you have seen,
That his creations are a devastation to the sweetness
Of everywhere and nowhere that anyone has ever
Been
What does it know, really?
Of kindness, of empathy, of all its horrors and wreckage?
Slightly, not quite enough,
But maybe one day it will understand the beauty of a
Lilly
The value of a naked palm, disclosed fleshy fingers
Warm, warm crimson blood pulsing beneath skin
Woven with intentions as pure as a swell act,
Which when ceased to be practiced by it
Will bless every stretch of the earth with undeniable
Calm

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