Picking Weeds

by

The infinite reward of the end! Must it be infinite? It’s certain it is. It
is nothing,
And nothing is everything- as well as everything; that if the end
brought it all
We’d confuse that this was it- nothing settles us without confusion:
All is appropriately all.
You dream? You fool. You have a stack of pigeons below your
glass, having crashed
To death against it. Necessity evinces us of it with a blade point.
Thus we learn
Our engine of surcease: Possibility adopts the vicious, and ye
dream gentle. Dream of cannons
And blood and wars that banner their arrival with the cannons that
splash blood.
Time remembers…

 

S. T. Brant is a teacher living in Las Vegas.

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