After the glow came the blackout,
And you held it in your white hand.
It was all the same to you,
always the antilogy
A silent song for a many-coloured night.
It seems like a longer time ago
than it really was,
The last time I felt the sun on my face.
But it doesn’t matter anymore really.
Seasons change, seasons end,
seasons come around again
And every time you do the full circle,
It seems a little smaller somehow.
A little more shallow, a little more predictable,
As if it’s slowly drawing in on itself.
Spinning down.
Running out of ideas.
But I just want to wind it all back,
Take it all back to the beginning.
Grab onto the momentum and let it move me,
Let it move me, like it moved you.
I remember the snow
swept down in swirling arabesque,
Along the hard grey veins
in the ruined pavement.
You welcomed the storm like an old friend,
And shaking off the violent charge
of concealment,
You tried to drown out the clotted sound
of humdrum beating against commonplace.
You were striking. You spit conflict.
The cold air boiled off your strange skin—
And you showed them all
you knew too much.
On the last night,
I had a dream that time was up,
And we were all trying to run out
before the clocks did.
You said you were sorry, but, you had to go—
‘Cause you were having drinks
with Baphomet at the end of the world.
“Fair enough,” I said,
and locked the door behind you.
