A place lit by glacial dynamite
A palace built of tears.
The glass weeps rain
And the walls are full of sorrow.
A castle-derelict of undone duty
The exasperating snore of tubes
Rushing with excavated phlegm;
A mountain of green gunk
Surrounded by a moat of shame.
Shemah Israel Adonai eloheinu—
Don’t avail this vale without magic
Bullets; this cannonball-littered
City of fire devoured by the dust
Of its own illuminated memories.
Deleted abilities arise as ghosts
Of habitual dance, done now
With autonomic agitations.
“The numbers are good.”
But the dead don’t rest
If the dead don’t die.