Chaotic acceptance of transference is now taking place. Within and without. Interregnum warriors are daintily placing their swords on the ground, picking up their crosses, and making their way methodically to the inroads, the places small and insignificant, where they could allow all grief and suffering to expire, where they could release all anxiety for the sins of a warrior and the karmatic resonance of violent inclinations, where they could set it all down, and rest in the chaotic indifference of the moment.

The crystal peace

The transcendental resonance

The placards waving in the air

Announcing that this is a tenement hovel

Where only the corroded compatriots could rest.

All the rest of us pretending to rise above all this will have to wait our turn to suplicate, to give in to the bastions of truth that would reclaim our souls from this rotted wasteland, make us kneel down and beg forgiveness. Beg that this lot in life will end without egoic trepidation. Beg that this all will be released, like the sacrificial knight, begotten all, begrudging nothing, making his way to the gallow poles, willingly, having achieved emancipated deliverance, and walked away from all the angry clouds that would whiplash lightning out in medieval resonance to inject his armor with the simple, honest, inescapable truth of this moment.

We are all thieves. We have all been guilty of sodomite rape. We have played out egoic tendril limbs deep into the placated hearts that are open to us, that were allowing a spectral visit. We could not avoid being a deliverance vessel for the terror of the night without the somnambulatic breath of escape.

We could not help ourselves. Fate would grind us. Fate would turn the screws to break the bones and slather out the muscles, the corpuscles disengaging the body into invalid gravy. We have all melted away and turned to volcanic ash. We have become stacked tetragonal basalt monoliths. And now await the rhetorical evolution of the next yuga.

Deliver us from evil

Thine is the power, the glory

Thine is the devastating whip

That would upset and unsettle it all

Upstage the universal content

With the next transition to the gold and platinum night.

The Iron Age is over.

I would not weep for it.

I would only await the regeneration

Of all that is. All that ever was. All that ever could be. It will become nothingness. And then resurge once again into a grander day. With clean clothes to dress up the table. Where we would sit, in calm conversation, about welcoming to the door the next epithet of everything.