The Idea of Revelation

It wasn't holy so let us not praise gods. Let us not look to them for bread, nor the cup that changed water to wine. Let us look to the bend of the road that reaches. A silver blur across the skyline, woman standing on the farm. In her grasp, the shine that is seed, that is beginning. She will work the earth, bounty in the vault of cosmos above her, heat lightning that lassoes in its manic current. Man never existed but to invite danger. Loveless one. There was once an army of men, saluting from bayonet to bomb. They were expert at sabotage, hand combat. You stop the clock in your paltry chest. The one that says choose, choose. Wind that desired backward. Ring the alarm. When you wake, no more pain. A mirror like a window looking out. What can your past now say to you that has never been said before? What of that clock that forbade you to move forward. What of the clock that asked for nothing but passage, the minutes careening into you like a fitful arrow. What of the clock that summoned nothing, not even mercy. Once you tired of wanting, a face to break, you started the clock again.