It is happening again.
It seems as though
Their ancestry has inhabited them.
But all it is,
Is nature passed down in spurts,
Blood of their blood.
A thousand voices echo in their own,
And they shall echo too
Lest they choose to unburden
Their children from
The onus of being.
But they don’t listen closely enough
To the shedding of tears that vibrate in the gyres,
Creeping down the tree to them.
The tales are brushed aside with hubris,
Pinchbeck wisdom on blithering lips
Which account not for mistakes,
Be they hidden out of sight
Or transparent like the air.
And they pull us underneath,
Spiraling into obfuscation
Just to rise again someday,
Completing thus another cycle
Of this never-ending lunacy.
Until a chasm is fallen upon,
And the gap is widened for the light to dawn,
We are sentenced to expire
In the torment of the gyres.