At World’s End
The hills were silent as the evening began its dance. Mercifully no light shone anywhere, other than what the moon’s gaze permitted as it commenced its rising over the statue that many called Freedom.
In the midst of this splendor, there was an intentionally anonymous female. She was a witness to this scene frozen with vibrancy, squeezing the joy of this moment for all it was worth before it vanished and the violence of life returned.
It was good hear the crackle of the sky and no other noise, she thought. Now, this was heaven wrapped in a bow to her.
Poetry, whatever that was supposed to be in these times, had finally lost its ego and became a thread that quietly watched and absorbed. Or some such concept like that, when all the chatter that made it was forever muted.
What all these metaphors actually meant, she had no idea. Nor did she really care, because what did that matter? She only knew that when nothing really held history anymore, strange things could come to light and capture meaning, without the weight of definition to justify it.
Civilization had made such mental juggling necessary, where one was forced to defend ad nauseam every iota of reasoning and action. At least, what had passed as ‘civilization’, with its falsetto gaslighting as it drained itself into a black hole of its own making.