The day the sentient beast discerns
the polar desert of its loneliness,
the day volcanoes of revolutions erupt
in the obsidian silence of love,
drugged for an everlasting presence
attainable like the surface of the sun,
lost in treasure maps to the grail of the high
that makes all the lows seem breadcrumbs in a trail
in the obsessional ravines of pale concrete
and seasonal affective crucifixions,
raging, frothing, spitting, pineal bathed in venom,
straining the unlengthy chain.
A day, a trip through empty glacier halls,
where footsteps count the years
along meanders decaying gently like snowfall,
observe - the colors of the rainbow are all black,
divine symphony played on chords of leaflike lives,
trying to break the code of an error syntax.
The day today is every yesterday and every tomorrow,
serpent godfather at the head of the table,
his own tail on a silver platter as main course,
all the while Cronus keeps gnawing on his children,
building a shrine of strength on pearly bones,
a bleak February in the microscope of solar winds,
today is just another day.
