I am nothing but a silent darkness,
Unheard and unseen, I wish to never return
Even when I leave, there's nothing to feel
Even then, I leave with no joy or glee;

I've been existing in Sheol alone,
The place of unjudged and abandoned,
Even God doesn't shine his light here,
I have been praying into the void;

No matter how or why I move,
I'm always where I was,
I am both Sisyphus and Hades,
The condemned and the executioner;

One fine day, the weight will do it's duty,
The human form is delightfully mortal,
The comedy finally completed,
Sheol will be empty and judged.

Leave the clean up to the professionals,
the conspiracies to the airs.

The dance macabre, music all-strutting a
life-expression,
worn in the ingratiating shimmer
off Time’s surface,
bright as a smile
and decent as a memory.

Like a worn blade
incapable of cutting so much of
what is needed of cloth,
and leaving only ruin
in its wake.
Just so,
matter turns to finer matter,
and of the, well, supposed immaterial,

the
to be not-to-be-so abstract
that-is-a-life,
a worn-to-pieces quilt of
finer thread than dust,
ambivalently contrasting
in the light of:
what is useful,
what is not,
loves me,
loves me not,

I woke up at angles with you
---a parallelogram, opposite but equal,
my thoughts in constant rotating view
---a diagram, showing us where
our homes are laid to rest,
where streets became dead spiders
caught in their own webs.

If we are in transit via tunnel,
aqueduct, or escalator,
it might be cinema.

If we lose atlas in the worship of light,
it might be cinema.

But I can't find you here;
here, where they used to build ships
from sand and steam
and science fiction;
where they used to design
buildings so as to create
a dissonant and mournful
whistling sound when wind
blew through them
---ostentatious things;
dead people’s things.

Through walls and underneath concrete, dug so deeply
into the wide plains
and withered, gnarled tree roots
of an agonizer's conurbation,
is a space halfway to the zenith,
charting the prescribed power
of in-betweenness.

Never again will we draw meaning from
our proximity to one another.

Alchemical winds
guide matter, groaning against
the firmament in its
transmigration:
foundations of the world.

Such madness;
as a heavenly body
turns its face, revealing and
concealing at once;
as a fruit fly
clones its black
cloak under the
plain daylight;
as a hat
lies upon a coat rack,
and haunts us at all
ungodly hours of the night.
A ghost! - one that
we mistake for whole.

Such empty evil
as a vessel that consumes others
like itself cannot be a sin
greater than creation.
And as all things cast shadows
in the light,
so walks a shadow
that some call a friend -
a visitor born of the same
fate as your own!

All the heightened minutes
Trying to keep pace
With parallel boredom
And overfilled space
Every touch is counted
Each whisper as well
The overall auras
Like secrets we tell
It's an intrigue of such
Known only to one
Tucked in so uniquely
With webs that we spun
From amateur housing
To seasoned decay
Time's ever-dividing
Day into a day.