The Second Going
By Yeets
Buffering and refreshing in the
widening gyre
The vote cannot hear the voice;
Things fall apart; the center is
naught to behold;
Monetized anarchy is loosed upon the
world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and
everywhere
Innocence is drowned in the
ceremony;
The best convictions lack all
passion, while the worst
Are full of intensity.
Surely some adumbration is at hand;
Surely the Second Going is at
hand.
The Second Going! Hardly are those
words out
When a vast image out of Simulatum
Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in
sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head
of a human,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is slowly moving its thighs, while
all about it
Reel shadows of the ignorant desert
birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I
know
That twenty-one centuries of stony
sleep
Were vexed by a nightmare hand
rocking the cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come
round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem.com to be
born?
