in kismet rapture
sometimes i wonder what the rapture's gonna look like if we don't save ourselves in time. if it'll be quick and over in a single night or as slow as this species' descent into madness.
so when did we go mad? when did we decide that numbers made of lightning meant more to us than lifetimes of history yet to be? is it when we discovered oil or gasoline, or currency over barter and i wonder, are some discoveries just not meant for us?
we, so i was told, always thought that the rapture would start with trumpets and falling stars like our own mortal crimes could really touch those heavens far, but if these stars fall down one by one from the heavens to the lithosphere i hope they make a circuitboard of the last highways home, the last final memory of a lighting that didn’t save us like it should have, the last requiem of the innocent blood on the asphalt.
i want to go home to a colder time but a gentler one, and i didn't do this but all of us did, so heavens, will i always scratch out the blood from my eyes for our salvations or is this the curse of being human? i don't think i want to be if we're like this, but if we'd listened to the other peoples we wouldn't be here, the stars don't come home one by one but they fade out from us like the blindfolds we wear to keep using oil.
heavens, if you’re even still listening in a time as corrupted as this, i know you're not all powerful but the other peoples can't salvage the mess we've made and i want to follow my highways home, fill my gas tank with billionaire's blood instead of gasoline's corruption and do my part to guillotine the bastards that started this, myself with them if i must.
and i want to cry from the way the world’s turn, dam breaking and corpses under the waves chained to drains and magma, and what say you? what do i still hear that keeps me breathing? what’s the point of it all if we have to watch this world we were supposed to love break slow under us. but the world isn’t breaking. the world marches on, oxygen to methane and chill to heat and maybe octopi finally become the species that fixes what we broke. and to me i hear the heavens sing, in that soft lilt of a whisper that only truths can be:
pale. pale our pale, ready to call the world home and damned at the same time. look for the cracks. look for the cracks in the madness look for where the water strains to be free. andrew scheer was finally dethroned and the whispers against a madman in power are finally turning to a roar. seventeen of twenty million trees are going to grow and pale our pale, you’re the one who made fifty of them possible.
you have to be kind, i hear the stars say, as i make new ones in the starlight tears that fall from my too-soft jawline. you have to be kind because this world is not, because the mess you’re in is one that can still be fixed if you keep going. keep running. keep your whisper added to the roar and keep your bike shiny chrome for the day you can fill it with billionaire’s blood and weed out the corruption in this garden of a world. you don’t have to be alone.
is this our rapture? is this where the stars fall one by one and we cheer when elon musk’s garbage comes down to make the sky a little clearer, when we read the stars from a place that isn’t so sacred? i… i always thought there’d be trumpets, somehow, and redemption. funny, really, i don’t even believe in the ones who play those trumpets. and maybe this is the rapture. maybe this is the world falling, and maybe this is the world waking up.
this is just a thousand-year nightmare. so i look from the heavens that love me to this earthen world that doesn’t, and i say, if this is our rapture, i hope we’re finally waking up.