We were younger and better
when they killed the lights
and you were lost in the static
of the formless and the pure.
...of things to come
The ghost's song
attacked the shrouded
and decayed infinity
while we visited friends
and sought refuge in a future that awaited us,
electrified and glowing neon black,
like an intruder's lullaby.
The caged warm body, a stillborn nomad
Warping like carrion
Held prisoner by unmerciful hallucinations
Toothless and dancing
Counting sheep and slipping the noose
while the veil of melancholia emancipates the void.
the fragile Gemini observes all
with weak flesh and lambs' breath,
adoration for none but the moth that kisses the burning crown with liquid fire contempt.
They ignore one another
yet remain mindful of their colonies collapsing within the seven invisible walls,
silent in their mutual amusement.
the caged warm body, the stillborn nomad dreams of mournful goodbyes never spoken,
of primitive beasts creeping against the dawn,
blanketing the acres,
celebrating like liberated peasants.
On the horizon,
the flower of the Apocalypse presents its petals
as the sky begins to scream.
The nihilist lived in the third-person,
Morningstar's kerosene on the nightmare of endless waves,
the Utopian ritual.
masquerading and blaspheming,
ingesting and mothering,
a once rancourous sentinel
now an apathetic warden on her final day.
© Adam Nagy
Adam can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.