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The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Thursday, September 10, 2015


As if the sun suddenly died
And the world stayed,
Withering away, one flake at a time.

Dragon sized drone-flies wearing cheap butterfly-print wings
Hover overhead
Against a pixelated magenta sky,
A has-been sky that weeps polluted colors
Like the broken screen of a digital toy from a failed future.

A prostitute earth, pregnant with cancerous maggots,
Unleashes periodic heaves of deranged sighs,
Strangled sighs that reek of a stagnated sense of time
And reveal the impotency of immunity-deficient morals.

The last of the Grand-thoughts to walk the surface
Fell from potential pride
And now lie in rusted dementia-dust, staring blankly
Only stirring imperceptibly, not singing anymore,
Easy pickings for the feasting dragon-fly drones.

Through rocky veins,
Hollow as empty promises,
That were once solid foundations for arrogant civilizations
Seeps tear-water from the mourning seas that bring with them
Washed up waves that were once used to weeping with wild joy
And now join a perennially putrid wind in indefinite silence
That grows and grows.

In the middle of it a lone monotone lingers,
Remembrance humming its sweet song
Since its gentle birth from the subtle vibration of the very first motion,
Its reverberation woven forever in the fabric of the universe,
Frozen in freshness in a vastness of ruined remnants.


  1. Damn! This is harsh. Cold. Frikkin true!

  2. One helluva read. I left me outta breath...

  3. Harsh, powerful...The path poetry should take.

  4. If this is how you write. I sometimes wonder how much You see.
    Your words strike chords deep-deep within.