Reflection #?? (I don't even know)
So we're reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy. It's post apocalyptic and crazy and spectacularly depressing. I got to thinking: what if, after such a cataclysm, people started finding information that was wrong or made up but believed it to be true (imagine a whole group of people convinced of the greatness of Gandalf and in awe of Borat's amazing pilgrimage). Then I thought about Billy Collins' "Paradelle," a poetic form he made up while talking about fixed French poetry forms. So I wrote one, in the vein of The Road.
We're not Ready
The mountains crumble to the earth.
The mountains crumble to the earth.
The sky is pierced and turns the deepest red.
The sky is pierced and turns the deepest red.
To the deepest mountains and is turns the.
The red earth pierced and the sky crumble.
There is nothing we can do to save ourselves.
There is nothing we can do to save ourselves.
We wail and moan with anger and despair.
We wail and moan with anger and despair.
We save nothing and wail with ourselves.
Anger is there, and we can do is moan to despair.
We cry out to the god we have neglected.
We cry out to the god we have neglected.
His heart, turned icy, can make no reply.
His heart, turned icy, can make no reply.
God can make the icy heart cry out no.
Neglected we have turned to his reply.
The mountains have turned red and icy.
God is the sky, anger can crumble with.
The pierced earth turns to cry, save we despair.
We, the deepest, we moan to his heart.
There, make no reply, out to ourselves.
We can do nothing and, neglected, wail.
We're not Ready
The mountains crumble to the earth.
The mountains crumble to the earth.
The sky is pierced and turns the deepest red.
The sky is pierced and turns the deepest red.
To the deepest mountains and is turns the.
The red earth pierced and the sky crumble.
There is nothing we can do to save ourselves.
There is nothing we can do to save ourselves.
We wail and moan with anger and despair.
We wail and moan with anger and despair.
We save nothing and wail with ourselves.
Anger is there, and we can do is moan to despair.
We cry out to the god we have neglected.
We cry out to the god we have neglected.
His heart, turned icy, can make no reply.
His heart, turned icy, can make no reply.
God can make the icy heart cry out no.
Neglected we have turned to his reply.
The mountains have turned red and icy.
God is the sky, anger can crumble with.
The pierced earth turns to cry, save we despair.
We, the deepest, we moan to his heart.
There, make no reply, out to ourselves.
We can do nothing and, neglected, wail.