The Apocalypse
Brandon Cook
I.
All of it shines like gold, enough to fool us, one and all
Since fools we are
But like scratching a surface, only a little pressure reveals the falseness of mere appearance and,
Underneath,
There is no pretense
No smidgen of deceit
There is only human flesh and longing—
Hands stretched out, in hope,
For belonging
The desire to appear—to seem to be—is contravened by a deeper desire, still,
Which is reality:
The longing to be seen
And since nakedness is a metaphor for something far beyond mere sex
We should not fear to undress
II.
The message of the Temple,
With its polished marble and sheets of gold
Is that God is contained here, despite the cold
Yet
Should it go to waste (as of course it will)
It will simply reveal the earth's longest metaphor, amidst the dirt:
That how things look do not signify what's real
And all appearance is rubble waiting for the other foot to fall
"And not one stone will be left on another"
Our job, only, is to wait on the signs that make things real
And point to the inner way of saying, "I am here"
And
"I'm ready to be revealed"
III.
And all will be revealed and, as the mystic said,
“All will be very well”
There will be pain and death and
All manner of things will be well
Like a river which, dried, finds new breadth
Like hungry stomachs filled with bread
Fire can burn or bake
Destroy or make
And need not be feared, if we will face the way
Which reveals any weight which would keep us
From moving forward, into the good, bright day
Inviting us to lay it down,
Like dropping a stone into the bay
So to make our way
Into the bright, good city, surrounded by field and stream and all manner of garden things
The spring to sing