These soft stones you call stars
claw at ravens, underneath the skull of your irony.
We are not without our useful futilities -
That function as the only spiral
of our narrow chasm

yawning in the wicked mist that tingles in the nerve-dead breath, your charms are few -
well met    and the hour has lost it's keening dread...
Where the hourglass slept -

Things are not the things we name things, alas
Our lexicon corrupts the numb jest -
the dumb joke that chokes the joy out of dominion
and bloats the vulture
till it simply

explodes.

You're next.