I see crystal spires of great conspiring myriads
Collapse to spheres.
A conscience of science fiction
Aroused as one sees tin men walk on streets.
The mystics and myths are.
The instincts and maths are.
Meandering meaningless tracks are.
Then to the sound of a distant locomotive
And endless opinions and motions
And loco motives
And motivations
And locked up forts fought for in ages past
And a lost train of thought.

Cars careen in between
Houses housing those who sleep.
The river in between
The Earth and the Earth
And over the Earth.
A tar road of glass,
Eroded by no cars.
Only the path of drowning men.

Dogs bark.
Logs covered with bark
Cover the park.
The night, the vast ocean of Jupiter
Poseidon, with pearls replaced by starlight.
'Tis, isn't it?
It is.
Las vivas sin sentido
Es
Loss of vitals without sin.