Shape

Dead, down-goeth dog
On a road of detection that brings warmth and comfort
No bummed matches to light the hearth
You see its fiction

Fire is light, is power is sound practice
Is envy is greed is reaction
Chemical, hormonal still functioning
What purpose?

It burns through the material it fuels, always using
So, fire's a sorry metaphor of power?
Instead pick a form that grows, the other half of destruction
Recycling, a stronger fiction none know

The little brittle bright you embark on,
Soft kindling to your fanfare
Soft trap,
Warm God.

Fiction writes with an agenda, always coming back to an "origin",
one of its created devices, unmask, you just where another helmet
In your war.
That drives down opposition, in subsumed ruins
Of ancient alternative hopes.
That were conquered in burn and ravage,
Still our cultures outline,
Still our directions shape.

Dead down-goeth dog.
We are super animals
That invent their evolution.
We have all the power, and it fuels our instincts
A well-designed machine
Burning its own waste,
Melting its gears over time.
Time, time, knocking
Strike the hour, the equinox
When the world devours us!