A million ticks, a thousand talks.
After counting sheep and floor tiles,
we've come to this conclusion.
An infinity of red roses
a river of gold horizon
a sky of plucked diamonds
All turned to putrid ash.
Flakes falling on the confused childrens' tongues.
Expecting frost, expecting an angel's offering.
I bear no scar of this neglect.
No wound, no trophy, no fetish
nor fond momento.
My heart could be no more bare.
My sleave never so dull.
My world never so flat, grey, tone deaf.
There are no songs, conciertos or sunsets.
The words have all run dry.
The penguins refuse to fly.
We eat
we shit
we fuck
and we die.
But do we not, also
feel?
I
No longer.
