Perhaps it’s my sign – an untold marvel, to encompass each stream, in rich forests they dwell, and of mountain range, to dwell in the peaks and lower still – to cower in dread and leap to moons breadth – and will they pace still further? – desperate are they who wander, their leap half secured, their cosmic sanity distilled while my sisters laugh. Glorious in them, those soft skinned apes with death their equal – how I exist without recourse – to become less – to become everything and nothing. And beneath fills that abyss of dust, a disorientated mass huddled and bowed, watch their lewd expressions, how dear … becomes in the birth of fruit less foul. Perform this act my son, speak in human.

When the abyss nears – and you can no longer move – trapped and rotting – your mind now worm meat – and this impossible fate is but a heartbeat away – at every interval – during each sunrise and sunfall – and how he waits so patiently – that unforgiving hound – more patient than life herself – it’s those worms again – feeding upon our animal instincts – my unconscious dread – to feel it late at night – when the persona fades – alone with my odors and sweat – and how I fear it still to this day – how much so – and my hands are like alien knives when he nears – so familiar yet so wrong – to learn the stress of ink against fragile skin – in so many moments one could wish a different soul – one made of iron and red wire – impervious to the woes.