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Montage of the Necromancer

Harrowing, an activity center active as the Pentagon

And shaped like it, too,

With wooden panels lining half the walls.

Whirlpools of seasons wet and dry regale their tales

Like cinnamon ashes in a sea of amber.

Their history props plaster tiles and florescent bulbs and latticed aluminum:

Natures progress beyond itself and the confines of this floor.

And it doesnt mind, either. Though Gods must

Endure their going hence, we construct citadels upon their grateful bones.

So thus we

ascend to

the third

floor via

elevator.

We witness a shuffling crowds benediction for the Sun.

Nuclear radiance saturates the spectacular Friday sky,

Casting them as shadow faeries in its play on worlds.

Yet we still make out each ones bright costume.

Its Halloween, or at least something like it.

A displaced parking meter dispenses equally vibrant candy.

We wash our hands in its rainbow shower,

Waiting for the girl of our dreams to not show up.

But of course she does, and what timing, too!

Feigned congeniality ushers us away

To watch her vanish into the amorphous horde

Like the Ant Race on Channel 1.


We can surmise how her night and history itself continues from here, in a gothic mansion

Tapered by varnished wood railings, a busted chandelier, indoor plumbing

The fate of the Universe.

We can imagine the bargain she made with her vizier, a sorcerer of some repute

Whose wicked incantations already wed her to calamity,

A betrothal which binds her, lest she act an accomplice

To the collapse of the known world.

But she breaks her vows, pounds at heavens foundations,

And the Friday Sun rises again,

Growing larger, twisting in concentric coils

Because the Coriolis Effect does that to objects in its grasp.

Cities fold inward like origami,

And mighty skyscrapers, after decades

Of coyly looking at each other

Finally get to feel the coldness of another brush against their skin

And join like the fingers in the hands of the Faithful or the Desperate.

Then they all race to the center of the earth

Constructing a final monument, a torus

Made of concrete, glass, and metal.

The last living creature is a white lion

Wandering a museum of surprisingly durable ceramics.

It lays down just before the bottom of the stairs, moaning

As flashes of worlds extinction seize him in their terrible reality.

His shallow bellows posthumously remind us of the sad, calming sound

Emitted by the air unit back home at bedtime.


His requiem finished, tears well up in his eyes,

Inflamed and red. They freeze and turn into rubies.

Laying down his head, his body calcifies,

Leaving behind a life-like marble statue

Long live the King.

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