city bones, fate, furies, ghost city of my soul, man made religions, nix, poem, Poetry, praxis, sonnet
I know the picture — this rubble was once
houses of prayer for a ruined city’s
people. Not all loss is the same. Absence
is pure fate for them, born for the Furies
that break city’s bones. You weren’t expecting
that. Fate was. Furies will help hook comely
scars in your flesh, nightmares in your dreaming.
Fate can’t help but love you, dear soon-to-be
survivor. All your talk of abstinence,
praxis and law means nix once Furies gut
man from man-made. Chaos is the virtue
gods call divine; all else is ego. Once
you claimed to be saved but from what?
Not this. Can you sense it coming for you?