The Angel of Grace

The Butterfly Inferno

I once met Homer in a subway station waiting, his words profound as he spoke of our being that life is not a destiny waiting to become as we never really are. The muse was clearly spoken dancing like a chime as faceless women romanced our displeasure. And all the while we looked towards meaning in a life we both forgot. Laughing as they danced without spirit, the daughters of Zeus cared little as shoes that made us waltz creating provocative pleasure not knowing why.

And centuries passed by us to the millennium of trance meditating without reason caring little. For all that passed in wakening drew near the age of grace and all that hides before us frightening like the moon. An age of lunacy scuttled beneath our feet where gentle life holds value of all that is to become.

And so I told the Greek as he caught the midnight boxcar. Beware of the age of the destined sophist. It may be yours to come.

He smiled and traveled on.