Legacies: a
laying on of hands, inherited commands?
Frilly vestiges of folderol nobody understands?
Afflictions and predictions, providence and
provenance,
fallacies, facts. The takeaway from Icarus? Sun
melts wax.
I pick a stick
of licorice, sit back, relax and chew, attempt
to undertake
adoption of the view that by default I am
the single living
remnant of a legacy left in the vault, more
Pegasus than
Icarus (I didn't melt, I flew): but final evidence
(no one was
looking for) of Kettelhacks. And when all acts
of
prophylaxis fail and I sail toward the periapsis of the planet,
and then beyond
the orbit of that orb (speedily receding
backwards) on which
nobody is left to pay my unpaid taxes,
that will
be a legacy as well – one (on
ne sais jamais!)
that
may prefigure hell, the barest thought of a propinquity
for which at which no Kettelhack but Guy will ever have
(by then) had
so much as to blink an eye. Wave goodbye!
.
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