The Basilica of Sacred Matches

 

And the toilet flushes;
A rehearsal for the apocalypse begins, and on this planet, my love...
Yet the ants know nothing of it;
A few wide-eyed blind souls and perhaps a wisp of wind steal the role from their own god...
And yet, despite everything, humanity remains unchanged.
Young, tender branches and all this damp, green, sacred grass choose to remain in ignorance...
Floods sweep away every fear, every anxiety everything, absolutely everything, that has no place here...
And the toilet flushes; 

A rehearsal for the apocalypse begins, and on this planet, my love...
Yet the lovers know nothing of it; 

They do not realize that, amidst the crumbs of light offering hope to a breathless darkness, 

they themselves have become steps, hopes, and compasses much like fireflies flitting through the night...
Souls flutter on, unaware; all these sacred loves and causes shimmer across the universe, unknowing...
And the toilet flushes;
A rehearsal for the apocalypse begins, and on this planet, my love...
And the act of "making love" unabashed knows nothing of it;
Like a hope born and nurtured within the hands of a child’s soul, left out in the cold of this world’s winter that flickers and flares, shielded from every wind; a hope that ignites, step by step, time and again like sparks that live for but a single breath, only to burst into flame once more...

04.40

It is not this world that reeks of, my love no. It is we who reek we, and all that remains of us, all these leftovers...
perhaps we are nothing more than an anomaly, a sterile virus...

* The Basilica of Sacred Matches.