13 – by James Luchte

Honor and reverence for the Muses, breathe ecstatic life into my words.

The centre is everywhere, chaos, a chasm, a womb –

Erupting flames of necessary and tragic contingency.

But, there is malice and cruelty in our dank little house of incarceration and death.
No one is looking out for us – wild wolves stalk in the shadows and dance in the light.

There was once a guardian, the last, but he is long dead.

Others claim he never lived or that he merely took over his mantle from the exiled.

There is, it is – we are not, but seem to be, a flame upon the wick of a candle.

All remains all, but each explodes amid incessant spirals, singular flashes –

A contingent spark, born, consumed in the flux of catastrophic fire.

There is, it is – givenness, the life and death of a flower.

The open, the chasm sounds, we dwell within quantum music.

The river does not need us – we are simply here, temporarily.

That each of us was here is an eternal fact with little or no significance.

 

Honor and reverence for the Muses, breathe ecstatic life into my words. The centre is everywhere, chaos, a chasm, a womb – Erupting flames of necessary and tragic contingency. But, there is malice and cruelty in our dank little house of incarceration and death. No one is looking out for us – wild […]

via 13 — James Luchte: Philosophy

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