Its ghosts play in the shadow outlines.
The streams are frozen.
The sun is a buttered disc
of artificial meat.
Orbits are escaping flies,
caught in patterns embedded
in your cyclical eyes.
This drama is the echo
of everything dead.
Pulsations are but dripping rot
all oozing through
these narrow corridors.
The view is bent: frauds
perpetuate the fraud,
and nothing real can survive here.
No weeping sacrifice,
no stubborn stoic toil,
no love on fire,
just branded disillusionment
and computer blues.
It's good to lose.
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