We awake to an infallibility of color,
Isolation between an un-porous, continuous line.
Frontiers, in memory, are still revered. Agents cross back and forth
Our impenetrable line, patrolling inside and beyond.
“I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end,”
The faithful rang though their leader dead in darkened jungle.
Destiny. The mythical call to fulfill history feigns comprehension,
Duty; each act a noble chariot.
Frenzied delirium shapes desperate mythologies:
Savages yet roam the lands—crouched spears—plotting
To take turns with lineage, defiling,
Ending all human history—plunging into whiteness to sink into darkness.
Nightmare logic. Inexorable validity.
The world is a void while the enemy is defined. But
There are cities where flashes drape the sky,
Tossing the earth, crumbling its structures.
Not far off, a small fleet bobs,
Small screams sob, then are taken by the wind
And are lost. Gasping, your eyes are wide, fighting
The darkness, swallowing. Then
All a low stir, a slow gush, of salted dribble.
This tapping grows a creaking grumble
To a rushed empty spell, coursing
Supremely from a single source:
A family of men.
We all heard it.
There can be no question. A shiver rouses the bucket
Of a milk white lake. Blackened stains
Streak across frozen prairie grass toward
Pounding drums. Prayer blows where
The spirits go, toward Mother.
Awoken, dissonant mutterings
Moan and creep through stale air to crawl
Off antiquated clean plantation walls, chattel
Ships and drift westward riding ghostly tracks,
Settling upon bloodied homestead shacks.
Though they are done with the frontier, scoff
At jungle tales, spit upon oriental dealings.
Fulfilled exploits of vitality lack fascination,
Narrative—true power—new wars and lands, stone idols.
Our senses were stolen, a fever rages,
The family’s incantation overwhelms, promising
Emptiness reigns over a hollow kingdom.
Fury blanches the sky, recedes, and is born again.
Erasure threatens to bury us in blue deluge.
Bright yellow screens enrage the frenzy of night terrors,
Split doors and shelled walls.
Outside, a bucket is spilt, and nothing grows.
A crashing thunder echoes and splits the world,
Forming a small celestial cloud, dusting the heavens.
Cries plead before the King as all collapses, then silence.
In this decaying stillness, once voice is heard,
“Mistah Kurtz—He lives”