I opened Pandora’s Box; I spoke with gods and men of ages passed and even they suggest embracing the void. Our sons and our stars, floating through the gaps of understanding, becoming an ambiguous corner piece of the puzzle – a formless arm. We whimper and tubular bells echo in the vacuum of carbonation.
I stepped in four puddles today, hidden by a boiled over layer of skin, the scrapings of a mirage. Chaos poured down and through canals of charred flesh, beneath loopholes and lace and the sound of steel crying. Locked away orphans, trapped in a hive, in the sky. Humility is an empty throne. A gentleman was bid a sweet farewell – electric thorns adored his skull as a crown, a monocle was painted across his eye, and his skin was the air. All at once beautiful, long, and hopeless. He’s forgotten everything.