binochulus


which is worse,
the flit of summer lightning
or the cancer of spawning snowflakes:

to be struck down in a single thrust
of heaven’s sword or buried under layers of time
and monochrome dust:

while death and its slow-twitch fibers
squeeze uncertainty by the gullet,
steadfast in making its sincerity be known

to even the most minuscule of spirits,
be it a glowing star millions of miles wide
or a point within a point within

an exponential of points
so vast it cannot be counted on two hands;
there be not an object

that does not lie on its plane,
from fire to excrement
to nebulae and planetoids

floating spirits of reckless abandon,
a thing that is
in time is not:

- even a thought
must end
somewhere -

thus the quality of life
should be measured by
the quality of death

how ruthless, how animal
or how sanitary and precise
the hangman’s noose doth hang;

as is the way of this world
from the day of
our birth,

to the gallows we, the living, do march
until we stand next in line
hoping that our bloated necks

will fit
the rope
just fine.




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