Standing in a Waterfall

It is said that we are hanging on the edge of  Earth - now is the end of words.
Literature has fallen.
What unholy secrets do they know ?

We are archetypes, mental images, heavenly sparks, hatched from the statues of ancient gods - we can not perish.

We will be transformed.
Transformed into bright neon campfires, 
into lighthouses on the banks a vast river, 
into brilliant torches along subterranean paths. 
As iridescent moths we are drawn to luminance.
Like the note of an omnipresent song, we resonate.

We are words.
Poetry is battle.