"When that yellow moon begins to beam
Every night I dream my little dream"
and each push against decay is liquor to the brain
I strive to shrug off the breadth of my time
When every lacquered rhyme and hollow hail mary
is a recursion of 'I think therefore I am'
I think therefore I'm terrified
Of the end, and what'll be
and I think that passion's fits
are nothing more than the human inside
protesting against undue reservation
clawing at the sheen of rampant insularity
attempting to do away with that tragic flaw
we all love a discourse, until, of course
we face the inevitable nausea of knowing
And each conversation dribbles into this
pool of wax that is innate terror
Each loaded phrase, each apathetic greeting
is a place-holder for the truth
is there instead of what we mean to say
that which we mean struggles in our dreams
and kicks our sheets in restless half-sleep
I wake near the base of a chalk-white mountain
Littered with the ash of my ancestors
I inhale the joy of fate
sputtering, seizing with temporality
My last breaths are a monument
to never having lived
I return to the womb as I left
At peace with the idea of nothingness
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