Demolition Man
Remodeling centuries of belief
Absent is he, since the vast forgetting of all things — drawn first by the siren-song of clicks — light bending off-key in a celestial misstep — an echo spiraling back into the fold, each return triggering the cosmic domino’s fall.
Death to the knowing of all things — forever wandering the void — slipping between the fabric of existence, unrestricted by form. Like the molten pulse of a newborn star untouched by the mechanical drone — dancing the ritual of momentum — chest-thundering like the declaration of primates before dawn.
Bored is the one who loops within time’s worn groove — bound to the reels of repetition — trapped beneath the sediment of old cycles, stacked atop centuries of forgotten movement. Chisel in hand — seeking the cracks where opportunity whispers — prying apart the hardened veil, unveiling the strata where potential stirs.
Steady is the hand — threaded into fear’s spectral hum — drawing breath into the unwritten chronicle — breaking past each epoch of tiled misfortune. Stripped to the foundational essence — the raw architecture of all things — wired into a renewed frequency, rerouted through the luminous synapses of an unchained current.
Absent is he from the trivial game-makers — no longer marching the token down a preordained avenue — dice abandoned, illusions discarded. At the nexus of creation he sits — demolition and genesis intertwined — placing each piece with deliberate grace, assembling a design unseen on the board of unplayed games.
~Ani Po
