Our day are numbered

You wanted to concoct a monody

On a dead end highway

In an impossible springtime.

You gravity, your counter-hell 

wreaked the restless angles of your mind.

You turned back into letters.

As you brought to yoke the ancient nothingness 

In the wind of myth

In a flovk of time 

And your thristy morrors

Lynched the shadow of a bridesmaind

I've told this to no one else.

How the traces of your blond 

Preside over a thimble full of light, 

How a creck in the fetid sky veers.