Cassandra’s Veil,
Midnight, January 19, 2017

Metaphors explode in bright reds and oranges, similes rot in pools of ink drawn sewage, pustules of rage erupting from every direction, a sane few huddling, hiding, hoping to flee. Glory halleluiah echoes from battlements on all sides, one side beseeching their god for signs while the other proclaims the centennial anniversary of his death, and death, grim but finally satisfied, looks on, finally bored.

Fratricide, destruction from within, fierce and rabid, boundless, perhaps a curse finally realized for all the wrongs done, the falsehoods sworn, the betrayals; hate flowing like lava in opposing streams, breaking in great waves against each other, mutual destruction so much less painful than salvation derived from the other shore.

Perhaps, as a People it’s well deserved but as individuals and families we all deserve so much more, but curses care little about such things, drawing power from within and without, uncontrolled, uncontrollable and unable to control their own destinies, they plow on.

Building crescendos climax more violently every four years, sundering friends and families, but who cares. Curse them all. Sadly, perhaps the world is all the better for that.

Dreams become nightmares may perhaps now start to pass into dark memories, perhaps myths. Babylon on the Euphrates and Rome on the Tiber and Washington on the Potomac sharing reminiscences in Hell, toasts to were’s and might have beens and what ifs and blown opportunities.

Hell, so much more comforting than they’d expected, as they watched Lucifer clap Milton’s back, thanking him for understanding.
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© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2017; all rights reserved