cacophony

「 ꜰᴏʀᴛʏ-ᴛᴡᴏ / and invariably, the cricket chirps 」

crossing branes in our chaotic luxury liner, i

did not even feel it.

how could the phalanx of time be

gentle as liquor?

/

look at her, is she still a puppy?

look at you, and those blooming rubies

an ever evolving terrain

— seriously, like the moon.

/

and yet i do not feel its currents

and yet i know:

what is it that chases me

and what is it that i chase?

/

gentle. and in many other facets

as liquor, i say it is.

born of a clarity so pristine

we race to haste and heights

until we drop and rest again

in lucid delirium, wilting

in the longest night.

/

and yet you do not fit their arrogance

and yet you know:

what is it that watches us

and what is it that we feel?

/

that's why i wonder, friend

am i your father or are you mine?

the grains that fall —

do we revere an excuse?

/

so mark me, dear:

it is us who do the crossing and

us who write for the fates

even as she writes us.

so take a good look, dear:

anna paints with her softest pen

in deepest-seeping ink.

/

so coax our soul out, dear — and read

the hollow tale i tell

with eternity — do you love

the sound of echos, dear?