Bonfire

Ever since Prometheus long ago, when flint and stone sparked,
And stole our innocent souls from old Mother Nature,
We’ve grown grim and cold, beyond our savage primordial mould,
From which we’ve all been struck so wondrously pure,

And never since Atlantis sunk below, when the superhumans went extinct,
And we lost our towering powers to roam through the mind’s outer regions,
Growing so childishly stupid as stone, ignorant of our own immortal bones,
Way off course in the world, yet still indifferent toward what it all forebodes.

And now all of us are unravelling fast, spiralling downward,
Into the gaping abysses of our avarices’ sinful allures,
Snaking dead last through the lost swamps of reality’s insanities,
Gone blissfully oblvious to all of our original treasures,

See, sometime between now and infinity, we abandoned all reason,
And we began gnawing at the hands of insanity, reaping demise’s needs,
Faking death to get more sympathy, for calamity’s messiest seasons,
Incapable of being reasoned with, for good measure–and means even,

For ever since sentience first banged open its big brash entrance,
That godly ball afire has been rolling over everything,
And creatures of lesser design and greater humanity,
Have been crushed in the frenzied path, of our ego driven sins,

And always calling on the guts to be greedier, we’re doomed in here,
Trapped between a sharp wedge, and a mountain’s giant despair,
Spurned by our brothers, burned by our mad mothers and fathers,
And all too sure the messengers have buried blades in the letters.

For never stopping to talk about what and who we were doing in,
We’ve been using our forces for the purposes of evil intentions,
Always strumming the violins of violent end-game repercussions,
Without ever discussing better uses for times spent in judgment.

Oh, we’re forever forcing forward, for unfathomably fickle future uses,
Unreservedly reclaiming matter and space, for our own special purposes,
So certain of our mortality, driving stakes deeper in our dark eternities,
Trading endlessness for ownership, consuming the cosmos so fervently.

The Sunspots Of Serendipity,
by M. A. Torrington, Honours B.A.
Abridged Edition 2008, Four-Hundred Forty Quatrains
18,682 words, 5 Books, 55 Poems
Copyright 2008
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