Just above the arcane hysteria of the crickets’ song,
I hear the philosopher’s caracoling explanation
of existence. He’s labile as a drunken fool
and elusive as time itself. But soon he’s cut short
by the sound of a lunatic’s laughter.
The laughter fades, and a feline wind
creeps through the festival of flesh—
the perfect Segway into silence.
I sit and appreciate the lordly rhythm of time
before the clock strikes a tender panic at midnight.
The cold-blooded logic of the Fiend,
who stirs time in a vat with death,
spreads my consciousness as thin as quicksilver
over these idle musings.
Favoring a tear, I feel myself indoctrinated
by regret, and hear the dead souls
as they ride the shadow of the wind.
