We shout as cracks widen under our feet;
Shards of glass fly along the broken street.
All the many promises we promised to keep,
Pile into one another in a bloody heap.
Eyes wide shut stare at the falling ground;
Feet climb the air and earth can’t be found.
All this a premonition of the anxious mind:
We are transfixed by fears that undermine.
Death is no small disaster to our ego-fiction,
When each frame suffers review and elision.
The I-maker is our brilliant original sin;
Every subsequent lie is second-rate spin.
Darvish can’t improve on his enormous falsity:
Too many fears fracture love’s sweet unity.
