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The Deferred Vacancy
The art of writing well, is the art of saying nothing elaborately. - Aldous Huxley, Those Barren Leaves
a nihilist's sermon
The Old Creator's hand is in
supposedly all things.
All some can see is thick or thin
volumes, a crow that sings.
A church that closes on the dusk
and shelters from the night.
The priestly crow shakes off his musk
and beds down, out of sight.
The volumes have been cracked open.
The crow's anthems have all been heard.
But life is death briefly broken,
a vacancy deferred.
Let me hold your hand and speak,
for Chaos, present in all it wreaks.
a nihilist's sermon
The Old Creator's hand is in
supposedly all things.
All some can see is thick or thin
volumes, a crow that sings.
A church that closes on the dusk
and shelters from the night.
The priestly crow shakes off his musk
and beds down, out of sight.
The volumes have been cracked open.
The crow's anthems have all been heard.
But life is death briefly broken,
a vacancy deferred.
Let me hold your hand and speak,
for Chaos, present in all it wreaks.
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