When the most capable
believe they have risen above
the mucus, the shit, the afterbirth
of their origin
when in their reflection
they see perverse transcendence
towards entitlement
in which no allegiance
or kinship of nature
binds them to their center
nor founds them in the
fevered fumbling fury
of the frightened flesh parade
in which they lock step
flailing for survival
when their insanity of arrogance
so distorts their vision of time
of the ancient
of the sweating
bone-broken reality
of human swill and wallow
through which they likewise trudge
shiny shoes or no
when they blatantly begin
to eat their own
while copulating with false gods
on forsaken gilded altars
of perjured horrors
then the hour of the beasts
is certainly at hand
and the power of wild nature
will rise up to dominate
and we’ll all become
the hulking mass
of the apocalypse
deserving to be struck down
and our black hearts
torn out and severed
by the self-inflicted rapier
of raw wild justice
and our husks immolated
on the pyre of banished
abandoned truth
that moment is near
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: eartweal
