your mustache became your
mouth's permanent hibernation--
"Thus Spoke Zarathustra"
no more.
your brows fell down on your
cartoonishly crossed eyes, fighting
to get a last good look at you.
as if a cradle's starry
revolutions counted you out.
your snowed in smock neatly tucked
in for posterity.
your sister's doting hands trailing off.
to where that mare waited in a flurry of
blows--so it could saddle your mind.
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 1:13 AM UTC
your mustache became your
mouth's permanent hibernation--
"Thus Spoke Zarathustra"
no more.
your brows fell down on your
cartoonishly crossed eyes, fighting
to get a last good look at you.
as if a cradle's starry
revolutions counted you out.
your snowed in smock neatly tucked
in for posterity.
your sister's doting hands trailing off.
to where that mare waited in a flurry of
blows--so it could saddle your mind.
* On Fredrick Nietzsche's final years.
