One Thought Filled with the Epitome

​One thought filled with the epitome
Of all ideas—their edges glint--
And then a wind blows, a holy wind.
If one grain is missing, a tint

Of a gesture, a philosophy,
A philosophy that scrapes 
A pitch-bubbling floor, its
Creativity is flawed, it gapes,

Its character escapes, the Divine
Flies away. Oh the gleaming
Spirits of the demons, but
They stumble, they flounder, dreaming

Of oblivion, of dying, of pulling
Down the dark cold on the whole
Stinking planet, and their friends
Sit in the UN, Khoshroo and Anatole,

Whose pleasure is destruction,
Collapsing buildings, civilians screaming,
Absolute rubble, acid clouds,
And the asphalt melting and blaspheming.