The horizon isn’t
a line to crest and plunge, beckoning the darkness
to die and summon the sun, only an expression
of passage ticking forward, holding still your eyes
on it is a good way to forget that you’re dying, but yours will come
when the pupils mold over, and you won’t hear a bell.
See the future in your shadow, through the past raining
down in streaks, for to live is to die every day
beginning an end, tombstone maternity wards
build deathmatch nurseries, for the world is inescapable
horrorshow systematics, naught is to be done
but draw the shutters.
But buck up, chucklefucks, for love is real
whether or not it matters. You can believe your own lies,
so sing them in songs that rhyme.