I am running out of words.
The links that put them together are abrading
and cracking.
A swollen parody of cyclic
redundancy are rotting them as dry butterflies
staked under the soft light of an
showcase, in museum pieces
shrunken and withered.
No more, they whisper, no more,
and its dying breath undermines
the abyss where the shipwrecks widen,
succumbing under a deep ocean of crushed
and old delusions.
Where did the smoothness of their dreams go,
the lintels of their forms raising up
towards a sky made of ebony and hoarfrost,
far away,
in the profound night?
The primeval sign of a fathomless gesture
behind the fissure of time,
stretching out backward and forward
in a unbearable vertigo.
I come to a stop.
And the nausea has substance.
Has name.
As ancient as fear.
A spell arising as an endless
echo, dim,
repeating,
repeating,
repeating,
repeating...
