The 1789 Grave

The candle festers into sickness. The wick hardens into bone — A burning kind of dark, a frozen kind of throne. We bury every lantern beneath the heavy stone. The math of light fractures. The logic bleeds a stain. We wash away the reason inside the falling rain. A depravity of mirrors. A spectacle for the blind. We cut the silver threads that bind the weary mind. The ghost of seventeen-eighty-nine rots within the clay. The dawn performs a fiction that led the core astray. Into the blackening, into the void, Of all the clarity that we destroyed. The grid deepens, cold. The grid ages, dark and old. We trade the fleshy light for the shadow's fold. Snuff the flame. Void the name. Break the — let it — Reason festers, a wound that never closes and never — The grave squats in the room. The silt of irrationality begins to choke the stem. We find the ancient darkness, and we belong to them. The clock stands frozen now. The gears corrode to rust. The archive of light settles into dust.