The Swing of the Pendulum
It swings not in supplication but in self-determination, not in reverence but in absolute autonomy. It bears no celestial weight; no deity governs its course.It bows not under crosses nor speaks to the crescent moon in hushed tones. Its beat derides hymns, incense, and bloodied altars on which men pleaded for quiet. The Earth turns alien and obscene as the pitiless pendulum inscribes reality into falsehood.
It is no relic. This cutting-edge reality slices through the veil of our illusions, showing us the harsh truth, the gradual curve of an unforgiving universe.
It sweeps through cathedrals, temples, and texts penned in shaking hands, leaving them desolate. It has no center, no hallowed axis; it is only movement.
It is only darkness.
Only the echo of everything sworn to be forever shattering remains.
The pendulum swings, sightless yet sagacious, tracing the rhythm of the intangible, unmoved by entreaties or murmurs, apathetic to doctrines and deceit.
It has no north to seek, no star, no law,
It circles no God.
Its unwavering Arc defies conviction; it reveals that the world beneath is in constant flux.
(Below its slow, quiet path, the Earth is dancing on, unaware.
Like suspended time, the pendulum still denies the center we affirm.)
We yearned for stillness, a plan, a sacred map, an invisible strand.
But in its swing, we hear the reality:
Our myths have existed since the time of death.
With no place of constancy, no end or destination, only movement suspended between two dreams.
And in each Arc... an inaudible laugh unwinds all our hallowed schemes.
Poetry by Golden Minotaur
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Written on 2025-09-09 at 00:54
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