Tumbling down the same lucent hallways much-traversed
where dwell so many mischiefs, so many, ill-rehearsed
pronouncements of certainty to thinly, slow-resound
and vanish to their graves with the empty profound.
Cycle after cycle, signal of the season,
circuit of insanity corrupting clearest reason
with mumbling repetition of the crawling undead
who cling to that same sad half-life once led.
And I cannot now differ from the clones of my past
who garrulate, commiserating — toil to outlast
what bright ecstatic miracle might threaten to transform
the tumble of mortality — that wretched, numb norm.
words and images by @d-pend
created for HIVE on Dec. 26, 2020.
