Christ is Late

Welcome to the Holocene Eschaton
Tripping from the vapors, the blood is running cold
Reptilian mind seeking after the divine.
Wrathful at the ends of its age
Green-eyed and with scaled skin
Blind like justice
Stalking with a hatred of its own mammal's flesh
To those fires engulfing man! To the funeral pyre.
This sixth great extinction will end itself.
Lucid, a moment of clarity.
Tattooed on the doomed are the deeds on their hearts
Brahma assigns the parts
The Deeds are sold.
As are all the treasures of old
To see the beast as a kindred dragon
In the caverns
With the shadow of the Buddha still shown on atop a pile of human bones
Here Mohammed was pressed and the Dijal waits....
The Oracle bones are thrown
Lacking and nonsensical are the world of fate
Seeking Delphi to ask
“What can god do that he hasn't?”
A nightmare
Broken dreams and dead loves
Rent attachments
Faceless and with the forgotten
Are those who have lost the will
To ride the carousel
All I see is the same blur
In my heart nothing stirs
Incense only covers the stink
Carrying no prayers or hopes or laments; they just hang in the air and then sink