Emphatic
the future trembles
in dust-speckled sunlight, yellow,
then vanishes with the slightest breath;
grab for it,
and it bursts like steam in the air.
our mythology of control
is a slow synthetic death,
a protracted execution,
arrogant axe
in the hands of the self-made man.
survival turned commodity,
pleasure turned sedation,
peace is a prison.
we renounce the Furies of creation,
and paint our lives with gold.
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