That Beautiful Thing off in the distance
ideality
that we would hurt and fight and kill
for a glimpse of its splendor
That Beautiful Thing
always miles ahead
and never nearing
a mirage of the spoils of war
the most human dream
the most inhuman reality

That Beautiful Thing off in the distance
beyond turbulence and pestilence and pollution
beyond intolerance and inquietude and fear
That Beautiful Thing
noble and futile
shimmering and shrouded
oldest and strongest
myth of humankind
whose very existence—
or inexistence—
is antagonized
by the unrequested atrocities
committed in its name

That Beautiful Thing
beyond miles upon twisting miles
of endemic humanity
the kind that bites and stings
claws and rips
at the tenets of individualism
until scorched Earth remains
an epitaph of the poison we celebrated
for its innovation
and convenience

and so it remains
That Beautiful Thing
in the distance
to be deified
as we vilify one another
to be dreamt of
as the success of a humanity
so filled with violence
that we would not be granted admission
if we found it within our reach.