Creeps is a pejorative term and clichéd in use
that is the way it is, and it is meant to draw your attention
to the quiet oblivion that structures our knowing
this, the moment we begin the undoing, and
commence the rejoicing. We rise with night’s dawn,
azure jet curtains raise to reveal an infinite heaven, each
star the story that God’s love exceeds our imagination.
Before sun’s rise, the stage is set to judge whether we are joined
or cast apart in a cold frozen plane. The absence of things
informs us. The charcoal lines of bare trunks and branches etch
perfect reflections of what is beneath. Canvas wrapped gardens
reveal we have drifted into a time of dreaming. The land
is unfamiliar within uncertain landscape, and yet it looks
like a place I know so well. Just like my street, my house, the
smell of my kitchen in the morning as I enter, all an illusion
I like to think I know — and by knowing, I can ignore it.

Oblivious histrionic I, I must be brought to this window
and made to look through. See the roots dangle in the sky,
communicate a kind of deaf, dumb, blind scream and shudder,
feel entropy press against everything, tremble that you know
you are collapsible, conquerable. “Show some mercy!
what is the story? or is this a mutual hallucination?” Look in the
mirror, cross through to winter, the cold dark exhaustion, look,
find the star vision of life, birthe in the wasteland, take that
as a sign in our dreams we are kings, and the time to bear
gifts draws near. Worship the end of what we started.

The dissolution of our wealth is accomplished with a palette of fear,
we who once counted gold, persimmon and silk in our possession.
We can choose to tell the story, but tell the story we must.
It is our witness, our testament, our contract to dream as we watch
the rise of the moon, a timbral shell, in a landscape become
an interior stage seen through a black blank window frame
set into a teardrop that trembles on a naked planet.

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