Vague histrionic pronouncements breed conspiracy theories and underground movements

aborted feebly, forever filibustering empty space with tasseled sheets of ice

arraigned in rows, rafter spies whetting razors on brown

straps pinned next to the mirror whispering siren songs, reciting a list

of future checkmarks to make with a black iron soul deaf to fear and pain

as long as it’s your own because we’re all pawns and it sucks

the big one, none of us is together with anyone or reconciled

to our own boiling scar tissue, looking like Lorenzo for a cure, we will find soulless.

 

Liquid therapy or et cetera to change the angle of incidental reflectance

that I have with reality sometimes, though on others it’s a myth-making mirror

and I can see satirical catchphrases raining like mana with movie

deals and halloween costumes, but I feel like Alex being cured

and screaming in pain, flowing rusty record scratch sensation

of tin foil flavored ice cream every night after dinner, so eyes up to see

the path before you is but terrors anyway, so sizzle your veins and solid your blood.

 

Time is the final arbiter, the scale pit and glory at once

together bumping bright holes in the sky, clouds tearing like

tissues apart with lava liquid pouring from the sky in a stream

to the ground, flowing the harbinger of what’s been earned

as well as given so in the end we’ll all get it, and after the reckoning

I’ll see you unless I don’t, because good luck is all that we have.