“New oaks poke out below us in the street, where water runs around the lopped-off feet of some historic general whose head the children painted red.”

“We must survive the night - and all the other nights. We must survive the flood. We must not just survive but thrive in mud.”

“Our cities, once bright jewels on the plain, are swept away in shards of shattered glass and buckled girder. In the rending shriek I hear the one-eyed king of giants speak.”

“Caught in the act of giving birth to a new oil-paint earth of no set design, you will lie there dying.”

“All signs announce, the change has come. I will be something other than I started from.”

To break the cursed loom

Of Fate and Boss alike –

In the night, we Luddites of the Firmament.

Yet should our doom arrive

(Despite/in spite/because of) our own best efforts –

For empires crumble as I’ve been told, and in the rib-caged wreckage of gray leviathans I may glimpse some hint of the blueprint of this shared corruption. I may come to comprehend why I could never mend my own desolation. I may erase my station. - From Christopher Scott Thompson

Death is not the enemy of life, but godlessness. The despair of humanity today is the product of centuries worth of both the denial of the spiritual life of the world and the suppression of the natural urge to reintegrate with that world.

A poem from T. Thorn Coyle