Out Of Eden

Now that we have drifted
into empty spirals
on each, our own
endless exodus...
Our genesis, forgotten...

This path of myth and metaphor
becomes the desolate
time-rusted bridge
spanning the distance
between our alpha and omega.

Our fall
from grace and righteousness
an unquiet grave.
Our names askew;
flickering on the neonized tombstone.

A catchy roadsign
at the tip of a sharp bend,
designed to mock
shameless lovers
who foolishly brave this blind curve.

Loud. Blazing.
Oxymoronic.
A warning as timely
and meaningfully useless
as these words.