The Mountains have all left,
Leaving behind a stain of
The immaculate, virtuous guards
Strewn across a trail towards The Devil’s womb.

The Oceans have been infected
Slowly drowning in the poison and paranoia.
Flowing into a sedated haze,
That leaves the flesh pink and torn.

Its Veins have been suffocated by battery acid and
Splintered glass.
Carefully clogging and unclogging in sequences.
The lungs, an archaic structure, have folded up
And apologized for the inconvenience.
Its Brain has been swallowed by ego and
Washed.
Its skin has faded like
your memories.

We are continuous functions
Bred with the same furiosity that
Can’t help but ignite and finish
Subdued and estranged.

This glass:
Pathetic and filled barely enough to trigger
A dense golden flash of assurance
That, for a second,
Evokes in you, an image of a bursting star,
And maybe for that second the thought of
Boundlessness enters through stage right
And performs a seduction that awakens a yearning
For a justification as to why the skin fades and the mountains leave and the oceans die and the people think
and the art lives and the hearts beat and the clouds cry and the
hearts don’t beat.
But do not worry, reader:
I’ve poked a hole in the bottom of this feeble glass.
And I think it’s time you pull the plug.