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The Refractive Index of Extinction

by Laura Doom

Nothing gives like the present,
and we have time to play with.
Can we afford to send it
to the future and live
like there was no yesterday?

Should we waste it here and now,
this feral affliction posing
as fatal affectation
cultivated by the fatuous rich,
propagated by the perennial poor
and borrowed by the living dead?

Maybe we can spend it
on a therapeutic killing spree;
two pints of blood
and a pound of flesh,
any prescriptive anodyne
to get us through those nightmare days
that haunt our hopeless reveries.

Ultimately, we have time to burn;
the definitive catharsis for survivors
riding the shifting storm,
our temporal tormentor going up
in smoke, its one-way mirror
signalling the futility of fertility.

We hold the unacceptable face of eternity
in our hands, knowing that whichever way
we look at it, there is no time to lose;
it was never within our grasp.

05/19/2021

Posted on 05/19/2021
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Joan Serratelli on 06/05/21 at 06:20 PM

Great read- thanks

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