Slipping out of focus now,
this slow fall into a shallow pit
has countless audiences on
seat's edges.
This is the kind of thing they make movies about.
Convoluted past exhaustion,
cliche spirals sell their earthly trinkets
and head for Hades.
Destination: Ninth Circle.
How is it possible? This
alienated deprivation of reality
is not all my own, never will be.
I have become everything one-dimensional,
a decaying heap of facades. Leftovers from
more photogenic weekdays remind me
of duality, of a set of gaudy earrings
I have apparently not yet forgotten.
But I find it better to let the corpses sleep.
Rest assured, they will wake eventually.