As I pass through this ritual
the solemn jest of circumstance
what lies beneath the scattered chorus
of beautiful lies is only
simple. As if this grand blaspheme
echoes with vast precision
as a caricature of the unknown
in the veins of all creatures
blind to the engine of desire

The solitude does not resist
it summons age with boundless gravity
these foreign lifetimes on a hidden shelf
aligned with sharp intuition
and the softest touch of
simplicity. The radius
of joined hands across the future
imagined like a day in December
imagines the hot summer moon

I wait with this painful thirst
spilling my own secrets among the threads
of wisdom. With heat from this friction
from this collision of dead stars
to guide my drugged senses this is no
simple sacrifice. I belong to these fragments
of a martyr and his cause
a symphony in passing cars
survival and the art of breathing