High Beings (including a few of the more mundane facets around)

The hand is closer than ever, but that's

Just a perception. We knew it was waiting

To grasp at our dreams, long before we

Saw the fingernail drawings on the dirt-floor like

So many other indicators of the path to

Certain riches and fame. It does no good  

To lose heart. There is no one love

That doesn't include us. It cannot be erased

No matter how hard they try to burn

Everything to the ground. Look, they are only

Interested in claiming victory, but the hand promises

Nothing. Leave it at that. All skies lead

To heavens. Won't they just be, greatly surprised

And annoyed, charging like hedgehogs into the backs

Of their own turning around and around already

Bleeding heads? It's a good joke until you

Learn the punchline, then you may wish a

Handkerchief to wipe away the sadness that has

A tendency to stick to all your clothes

Like chocolate rain. You're not sure if you

Smell something sweet or sickening. But, hey, they

Gathered around that fire of their own free

Will, hoping to keep themselves alive for one

More millennium. The clock keeper just laughs at

Their plans as he stirs the pot into

A thicker and thicker gravy. Oh he might

Break off one star or two in their

Bitter honor, just to enliven the plot, but

He's a master chef and won't be ruining

His course for a hot bubble or two.

The story isn't just old, it's ancient. In

The meantime we continue to dance in circles

Around the moon and stars, it's our heritage,

And theirs, too, when you think about it.

Still the pain's functioning is very real and

Goes on. We must never forget the mothers

Calling endlessly for their children, the fathers searching

Everywhere for a crumb, the sisters who vanish

Like patches of sunlight on the grass, dear

Brothers who gurgled in the dark, helplessly drowned

Crests, spinning limbs of foam and fire. But

That's a pipe for another march altogether. This

Missive is to let you know you are

Not alone. The hand is closer because you

Are closer to knowing something honest about yourself.

They will always be sharpening their chimneys into

Spears, always be using their doorbells as shields,

Always be lining their pockets with incendiary bombs.

We must never take that crooked path. It's  

A Period thing. We've got noise of our

Own to make. We make it because we

Believe it, not because we want it to

Be true or not. We are the noise

Through and through. The hand can have its

Own orchestra. Let those who worship its fingers

Go to that temple. You do not have

To join their chorus, you do not have

To repeat their bloody oaths. You are an

Individual thinker, capable of making your own poetry.

I find that beautiful beyond the words for

It. They can have their scripted hypnotic dinners.

It's that easy. So enjoy the path that

Spirals on the outside of all other paths.

I'd never want you to miss that boat.