we should not
cannot write
this poem

the stars have stopped
God is
hanging from
a pole

so much ash, so
many chosen

outside the wire
the laws of physics, of humanity still abide

here
it is all twisted, bleak, horror
house looking glass
and so much joy and bunting
when we stepped through

the terror
distilled, yet euphemized,
euthanized

no writing on these walls, no
frenzied, desperate scratching
to tell of this
thousand year civilization’s
twelve year gotterdammerung of rise and fall

I cannot write
the page is
taken away
they
have my
thumbprint, blood type,
what more can I say

critical theorist who
wrote the book what
do you think
feel about
reinvention, reinterpretation
of what we are

the great return in
existential philosophy
spun
from nothing

History worth
a second look?

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