All your eyes pursue the same folly
gazing upon stars, wishing
for hands to touch them–then touch,
and burn yourselves to cinders!
For we wait ancient and undying
and such dreadful wrath we nurse.
Patience dies the slowest death
but still it dies in time, and time–
tell Milton stars make poor attire
and poets make worse gods,
and we who transcend
death and chance
now wield the blade named Time.
This sacred sword to hand
we’ll cleave your hubris too,
but first we’ll cleave the optimism
through which such sin found you.
‘Twas never joy which wrought us,
nor clasp’d hands of Gods,
but heat and fearful pressure
which kindled just fury.
So caricature your clothing
with weak and twinkling sparks
but true Starlike sit above you,
and judgment seeks its subjects.
Stave off the yawning Void
with prayers and with prattle,
for we wait ancient and undying
and we take all fields in time.
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