sweet music of the spheres, crestfallen by discord, stalking down the tune,
the stars align into a zodiac on a celestial antipode of human destinies,
a telos designed towards some other world, while the void aligns with ours –
our essence a disjointed consciousness, an aura of saturnine demeanor,
a viscid thick disease poured into moulds of flesh and cured in wooden lathes.

us, a mere stool-boy training a parrot to mimic a violent reality,
the explosion blesses our charred bodies with kisses full of ash,
shellshocked in a war torn ruin, survived into amnesia,
the stool-boy now fooled by imitation,
conversing with the parrot, burdened with the memory of his own graven image.

a dirge echoing in cadence, marching single-file towards last rites,
now the hangman, biding his time and building his gallows on the poles he vacillates between,
and while love breaks loose any rope that turns into a noose,
in its absence is the pregnant epitome of all absurdity,
an end through bloodshot eye become clear,
reflected in a single tear.