ENDOCARP: A Poetry Collection

sitting on the floor

the demons in white,

the chosen ones, side

by side beneath a beat

that plays steady and

flawed.

tales of terror,

the firefly, the

martian, and the

voice passing

through the

microphone,

they've found a

place to rest.

brown shelves,

green carpets,

and tan walls,

the temple of

the read and

the unreadable.

the last shot,

Hyperion, and

the riot babies

have found the

battle ground

where they insist

peace talks.

does it ever

really end, or

does the final

burst of light

restart the

cycle?

does the fire

birth us again,

like water

evaporating

sideways?

we are the ghosts

in the machine, the

haunted automaton,

pop culture references

galore.

now chew, chew it

to the bone, and tell

yourself, convince

yourself, that you

tried to stop.