Every other moment,
beneath my feet,
I feel the ground's metamorphosis
into open air.

Truth is a tightening noose.
Trying to syphon anything but lies
as white as the proof is deniable
is useless.

Spoonful after spooonful flying
into a smiling mouth;
no airplane sounds.

Missing the tentacles writhing beneath
the detritus on the Earth's surface
is as close we orphans can get to
being detrimental to a cause.

Claws marks on the inside of coffin lids
scrawl their own metaphor for the squall
that drifts slow and minimal
but ends at The All coming to a
screeching halt in the middle
of the walkways connecting
the land of the living with
the dreams of palms outstretched
for what we will never learn.