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Agent of My Inverted Alchemy.

Concrete supports my soles.
Skyscrapers line the street.
Like an abandoned city
all around,
stretching out before me.

So silent, eerily so,
like the cosmos
is a three-dimensional
still frame.

Where am I?

In the distance, far down
the building-lined road,
it rolls my way,

Not a target, this I know.
Its nothing personal.
To the coldest conceivable
form of the contrary:
I know I hold
no significance.

My life, this death,
inherently meaningless.
This reaper as blind
as true justice.

Here I stand, just a minuscule
morsel in its violent
frenzy of feast
as it keeps on
rolling, consuming
all in its path, this collapsing
wall of flame high as the sky,
wide as my eyes,

an almost liquid, killer
tsunami of fire
putting a sudden
and thorough end
to everything.

Agent of our inverted
alchemy, transmuting all signs
of life to ashes;
the philosopher’s stone
back to a steaming
pile of shit
in a stinking flask.

I should fight.
Relentlessly holding
onto my life,
yet with the inevitable swiftly
approaching, my initial,
mortal terror dissipates,


A traveler’s gasp
before the final destination,
the end of the road,
surely prematurely…

then a high
as I exhale?

Before the inescapable,
I find myself embracing,
inviting this merciless,
impersonal intruder.

Find myself
cornered and rolling over.

No use postponing
the inevitable,
after all,
in the end.
Clocks hands unify,
my time is up again.

Flames eating the body
with a ravenous, libertine orgy
of sharp tongues.

Ritual for the death
of the ego.
Just a silly masque
I don.

What a noble warrior.
Such strength
I have displayed here.
So much for
not dying on my knees,
honoring the true will,

having any sense
of integrity.


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