identical identities bashfully bash themselves together,
like lunatics dancing round stairs, straining forever
forward towards twinkling stars staring them down
and burning black holes in their souls.

Light lasts longer than life leaking through cracks
towards the cellar door, a door in the floor
leading below where stars turn their backs
and halos alone allow honesty its roar.

Gregariously bellowing delirious dramatizations
at weary walls erected erroneously in isolation
causes angels to tread towards stairs alone,
up to where light once shone.