Some people wonder what eternity
looks like.
I have seen it:
A squat, Mission style building,
adobe red and boxy,
huddling beneath
black, fleecy Florida clouds.
Into paneless windows
and across silent halls,
palm trees sigh breaths
no lungs will ever know.

Torches seethe outside,
less tiki and more gaslight,
hissing at wandering spirits
that flicker in and out
of oily shadows.

Fat and yellow,
the moon rages,
too bright for its size,
too small for its significance,
too important for its function.
It does not know it merely reflects,
an echo of what was,
passive and impotent
like the spirits
lurching through eternity.

 

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