the gods xviii by Donald Kuspit
silence is the crime
of their consciousness,
killing meaning
with its immensity.
they make themselves known
through outworn miracles
bespeaking the freshness
of their inevitability.
we feel their invisibility
when we outlast our words,
feeding on themselves
when there is no world
left to feed on,
and the sundial no longer
casts a shadow.
words are the leavings of life,
labored crumbs of consciousness
easily scattered
by the unconscious,
but the gods are the remains
of death,
visible when there is nothing left
to remember,
only the ecstasy of enigma
when their light
shines in every corner of our blindness,
outlasting the everlasting void
for a lingering moment,
humbling us with the purity
that restores innocence
of vision
when there is nothing left to envision.
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