Mankind in three ages, save four. None in the properest sense but last
Not an exchange of single kin, for the tribe, Our sin
No, that’s a misreading of history––and intent, Our past
Worse –and much so– an exemplar of death as solvent to its selfsame stubborn fact
––and at that end, and Ours, a terrible hint:
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First a knowing never sated
Then a taking and shadow cast
Finally the childish treble, the meekest inheritance
––a giving opposite the desire we’ve ever known: Katapausis at last
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Alchemical inversion of this bad light, this Malum
Secret satiation and salve:
The turning of We leaden to gold
a knowing that we cannot know, an un-having we cannot have
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Hungry lovers and haters of Man, thieves every one, We;
made saviors to ourselves in the letting go, the open hand to our fellows,
the acceptance of our cold natures and kin
A light turned warm in final glow, a resting of burden, a loss,
to the creature plagued by need of win