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Late modernity carries excess cargo, a plague of barnacles & a loss of compass. Fix it.


The making of a Post-Modern Testament.

Christopher Nagle

For the indulgently rotund
Moral tales are like bathroom scales
Unforgiving, maladjusted and shunned.

Great journeys must be imagined first
and so trenchant in their intent
to slake the deepest kind of thirst,
they grasp imaginers by the throat
and tell them bluntly
only through travail and trial,
by purging fire
and hammer blows be smote
can their spirit be reforged
and history’s child
be sired.
This ordeal can either temper
or destroy
according to its whim,
or perhaps the pilgrims’ strength within.
Courage can surmount faint hearts,
but how can faith presume
that having gambled all,
there is a way to save us in the end?
There are no roads upon the other side,
except the ones we make,
every step perhaps at stake
our lives,
every view through soldiers’ eyes.
And so we wile away our days
beside brooding familiarities
that will not speak to us for fear
that it is not the sun that brightens
all that we hold dear,
but the bonfire of our vanities;
that the deepening darkening shade it castes
is not shadow,
but decaying sanity.
We look for hopeful signs,
but at midnight,
the clock rings its hands and says
in anguished tones,
“Ladies and Gentlemen,
it’s time.”


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Christopher Nagle