In this deranged, fertile light -
which makes shadier our sight
-, come and sit with me, right
here to join the passage's rite
of a generous dark to find.
Unlit your cigarette with that sleight
move by offering it to the night
and, from the ashtray of dreams and might,
augur my future; see the fright
for armoring me against its smite.
And say: I bound all these tribes of kite
and bury you under the ashes and blight;
deep inside the hallways of the iron hill to quite.
Burn - you say -, and they all become trite
for they only promised me two-tongued daylight
but, now on, all I can see is the fire of my dark bright.
"Come clean before coming undone" - said the mirror, then melted in the room.
It flowed down from the wall, billowed the room,
and moved across the hallway.
Broken skin like a mildewy smell, disgraced by this voiced-out message,
the iron hill became too twisted and our moments in time,
like debris in the pure water on their way to float to nowhere.
It's happened on your last watch.
In a lonesome salvage yard,
she - who was raised by machines - like
an electric shadow on a hopeless, desolate street in Berlin,
was risen by
the taste of your swallowed tears as bitter as gall,
the music of your careless heartbeats singing
its own song of rust,
exhaling radiowaves for picture and thus
bring you into life again
by reshaping the man - from the sounds of wind chimes
and piano accords - who you were
more than half a life ago.