The Last Enlightenment

The mystic lords surmised that belief eclipses knowledge...    
   
And so the angels reformed to the black of the moon    
we could not know was drenched in the radiation of the Throne.    
   
Earth, in stasis, transports its soul around the irrigation pipes    
and acre-spread markets,    
for the plagues that killed the youth,    
bequethed cancer upon the old.    
There is causality    
in why its quakes aren't such remorse.    
   
The sun burns through its spirit.    
Dormant as it has been    
for this millennia.    
   
It once considered the Aztecs and the cults of humankind.    
Across the 92.96 million miles.    
   
The mystic lords threw miracle into the ineffable theurgy,    
and those that have seen    
overrun their liver in neuroleptic practicality.    
   
Do not the birds even sing with closed throats    
and demons mouth the biologic alchemy of truths?    
   
The Serpent lies about the feet of the children of Eve at a bus stop    
and passes over.    
It consumes its waste to undisturb the table of our tested elements.    
   
The mystic lords conjure parasites,    
innfecting believers in their arts    
to wriggle betwixt reason and the final step.    
   
And it is not known.    
The blind don't see on video.    
   
The magicians sit on the tombs of the fabled prophets    
and pay homage to casters that mimicked satanic cosmos.    
   
Every messenger of each order of principality slain    
in cleared mist...    
   
To call on these lords and reject these lords,    
there is understanding    
that if they exist in our pain,    
and we abhore this metamorphosis,    
then belief outsretches the knowledge we would have formed,    
and thus behold the reemergent shawl of mystery.