Pandora figured it out first,

at that great genesis, 

when she unlocked her tabernacle of sins

and predestined us all to a life

of illusions and rediscovering

Columbus’ initial thrill,

along with the inevitable

tragic combustion of disappointment. 


We live like we are stargazing

Staring up without 

understanding that those

beacons are dying as we admire them

They too are just little lives

flaring in and out,

ending without grasping

the path of their

slow satellites is ground

that has already been covered.  


So we lie to ourselves over and over,

trying to forgive and forget,

until we realize 

that we’ve witnessed 

ninety years spent tethered to axes

bound to interchangeable eclipses, 

awaiting the revelation, 

the somber supernova,

that our supposed unique discovery,

is ultimately identical to the 

first mortal’s initial dread. 



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