the ragged world

the ragged world

the bright bauble
that clogs our minds
impels us into
its embrace

at what point
do we realize
we cannot
measure it
with the span
of our hand
nor subdue
its breadth
to our knowing

man is not
the gauge
of everything
pride warps the
boundary lines
and fudges
the increments

through
the humble door
alone
can the thread-bare
ragged world
be seen
in clarity

RWOz2

Day Eight Hundred Nine #DiaryoftheEndoftheWorld

Stan could not have been more wrong. And we were content not to disabuse him of his mistaken notion. Not that he left us any means to communicate that back to him. Unless, of course, he had some kind of “eyes” on us. In which case he might guess at the reason behind our unconcern.

For what would he make of the fact our staying the night? Or that we took our ease and went on walks around the megapolis seeing the sights and taking the measure of our adversary?

For as in other places we’ve been through, his image was everywhere, wreathed in honor and pomp.

Very sad, really. Such an immense pride shall surely have a great fall.