the blurry horizon is infinity itself

 

 

If we become survivors
the elect few
to renew the significance
of toil and dream,
if we are the last
two Rimbauds in lands
of shadow and cave,
what message will be engraved
in the red clay of poetry,
will we bring the knife close to earth
carving steep heavens in the surface of rock?

 

 

Nihilistic Poetry

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