Your omniscient presence kills.
Burrow, Burrow.
Deep into my gray, ailing soul.

Intuition is a symptom of a failing system
I am, I am.
A golden statue corossed into air.

The livid crowd hurls their stones.
Running, Running.
Toward the spotless sunlight.

With blistering feet and blood shot eyes.
Bask, Bask.
In the darkness the dead do not fear.

The spaceman resides in a field of daffodils.
Pondering, Pondering.
Their effortless conformity.

Extraterrestrial eyes look into me.
Turn away, Turn away.
To face an orchestra of shrieks.

The rope around my neck.
Tightens, Tightens.
As I step off the wooden platform.