It seems like chaos is swirling in an innocuous lethargy, or maybe it is so fast that it is impossible to comprehend, an approaching cyclone, its outer bands already devastating shapes, spaces and lives, unformed, unbounded and unnamed. And in its one clouded eye, reason is crying.
Chaos is the universe fixing herself, brushing the crumbs from her gown, clotting her bleeding lacerations, braiding her unkempt hair, steadying her racing heart.
Is the denial of impending doom our way of coping with the decaying now? How long will we pluck metaphors from nature, Marcus, to reassure ourselves that the laws have been tested and that they work…spring will follow winter, day will replace night and no matter what leaves, the waves will always return to our shore?
As long as we remember that it is our faith that’s holding up the sky.
silver scar on the cheek of night,
fading is not healing