all worlds fall

as gods are invented
then forgotten

as pages are written
with words that betray
the beauty and obsolescence
of a structured soul
stricken in an empty role

as hands like charcoal
are bankrolled
by anonymous thieves
with days spent
in permanent relocation
and momentary memories of
radiant reclamation

it’s a passive machine gun reprieve
permissive and paradoxical

as i drink, fuck
write, and think
about the cold hands of destiny
that always seem to caress
at all the wrong moments

as prayers and invocations
invite uncertainty
under a mysterious sea

perhaps the great shark
will grant me
a definition
other than
temporary
and eventual