Metamorphosis Lyrics: Eschaton

What I figure is that before we come here, we negotiate our terms upon a round table. There's a shot glass placed in front of us engraved with the word Eschaton. An olympian lamp swings above it, casting shadow puppets of this lunar cup as well as all the cosmic postures of gods and demons beholding what you've somehow awoken to. It's all very dizzying, but somehow the air tells you this is a one-time treaty.

Across the table from you is an illuminated eye, holding your peripheral with its menacing poker-faced stone. Like a canyon, it engulfs everyone into its swallowing glare, casting everything as shifty in comparison to the tone of its reptilian pupil that looks as if it had never blinked.

You avoid its glare.

Instead, your eyes contemplate the awaiting shot glass. A mist hovers above the bubbling contents like an amazonian potion cried from the tear ducts of extinct trees. The gods inform you it will make you resemble them. The demons warn you it will make you resemble them. Between them both, the illuminated Eye, like the brim of the cup, patiently anticipates your execution.

You palm the small chalice in your left hand and draw your last breath, taking one last look at the present patrons. They are all unmistakably familiar faces of once-family members, friends, and lovers, simultaneously exhibiting all the characteristics of everyone you've ever known, yet with a celestial twist. The longer you look, the more difficult it is to distinguish god from demon, ghost from reptile, spirit from archetype, or even one from the other, and not a word is spoken as every eyelash and muscle conforms to the surveillant stillness of the Eye.

"Once you drink this," a voice echoed, "you will be born, but not necessarily into life. It will initiate a journey of endless torment and priceless joys. This water will always remain within you, and you'll be the only one who determines whether it's medicine or poison. You will either use it to find life or it will slowly burn through you and become the excuse of your death. This is a process we've all undergone.

"What will it taste like?" I ask.

"Like a boomerang dipped in cyanide and honey."

With full vigor, I jerked my elbow upward, diving towards the treacherous liquid, lips and tongue inviting. The room hushed into a stark suspense, marked with rejoices and moans, but just as the first drop detonated the nearest taste-bud, a tsunami of second-thought tidal waved to the forefront of my mind. In the small reflection captured within the Eschaton, I beheld the mirrored image of the Eye, this time my own. It was too late.

Our personal armageddons are like mini-apocalypses of snowflakes falling onto open engines, sizzling into smoke signals as we approach this fascist finale.

The machines are warmed up now, while we chatter away within the barbwired picket-fenced lawn party assembled on the deck of the Titanic.

These are the opening credits.

The Eschaton in our bellies is like whisky as the movie commences, and it will undoubtedly kill us or save us. Under the hypnosis of the Eye, it burns through our guts, slowly returning to the ground from which it seeped. Used medicinally, the living water sings like bar-stool conversations of the round table. It's almost as if a heavenly finger is rimming the circular edge like a resonant wine glass, threatening to shatter the crystal ball if heard far enough. Unfortunately we all due for another suicide.

Soon.

Cheers.