Two hours past midnight
I wonder
Wandering
Clutching shreds of text
Tinkering with tattered machines
Compounded and combined
Strewn 'cross the plain of time
Something from Dali's mind
The desperate efforts of whispering madmen
Fleeting forms
The artist and poet
With song and poem
Rusting skeletons with silver plate
Chisel-chipping hieroglyphs in river stone
Thinking twigs forever losing leaves.
A melting of chaos made by angels falling
The hurler and the hurled
The world below,
A pool that is boiling.
We are a raging fever of little cells
Kept in quarantine
It has stretched to hold our minds.
Delusion of the latest hour
Where lettered pages little avail
All books fade and finally fail.
They are but the fuel and foundation
A funeral pyre to warm the incoming generation.
Tomorrow comes quickly.
New cities grow
Bridges are built
And tigers still shred antelope on the plain.
My thoughts are dust
Words are simply shapes.
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