Nothing real will ever be enough.
The ancient dream of immortality
has fluttered against unbreakable glass
for a thousand lifetimes without getting in;
countless hopes lie buried in separate graves,
and yet it still persists. Humanity,
always caught in the grip of the present
when it really desires forever,
wants age to be practice for the future,
a deep black mouth with a throat of light,
the unformed songs of endless years to come
masking the atonal slash of nothingness.
Published in The Storms
S.C. Flynn 