Sucking Dopamine Directly From the Hypothalamus of a Dying Swan

They dressed in white so the blood would be visible

They stood in circle to pretend it was a ritual

They passed a knife like it was tradition

A deserted arcade with rain on the screen

They wired the moon to a dying cathedral

If I had limitless time, I would spend it all

To map the decay of an achromatic god

Hiding from my self

Missing someone else

The slow motion collapse

Of a forgotten gnostic deity's drug relapse

Witnessed a crystalline miracle

But being too tired to describe it to anyone

The damp, pervasive sense

That you should be doing something else

Something else

Sad music from Saturn's hexagon

A faraway town with faceless clocks

Too tired to wait for anyone

If pain becomes form, then it does not overwhelm

An aesthetic of nothingness

The boring, persuasive sense

That you should be somewhere else

Somewhere else

If I had 9 lives, I would use 8 of them

To blow my head off in front of you

But keeping the last one

Due to paralyzing apathy

To stare at clocks that tick with demonic pretense

While time itself begs for suspense

The intimate, forbidden sense

That you wish to be someone else

Someone else

Passion mutates into existential fatigue

Applying anodized coating to a larimar gem

That dreams of becoming a comet

But what's a falling star

To a burning sky?

We never left the desert

The destination of all passion and ambition

Is a dusty box in the attic you'll revisit in repetition

The mind analyzes its own putrefaction with surgical precision

It sound suspiciously like murex shells

That yearn to be nothing the moment it ends

The shadow cast by absence constantly compels

The thought that there is nothing, nothing else