The great theft of yesterdays;
Alongside their shattered rivers.
Thrust false hands
Into Tartarus’ abyss:
Orgiastic nations of goodbyes unsaid,
Dreams undreamt,

The Last festival approaches,
So don
Your liquid mask,
Sing your Mother’s song.
All around waltzes
A world too wicked in half,
Destined, doubly, to pass:
Yellow-dressed children,
Red-cheeked pleas,
Tottling brushstrokes
Of heartaches long-abandoned.
And behind them?
Height-mismatched soulmates,
Staggering softly into midnight,
Arm and hand clasped
In silver union.

Unsheathe your sickle,
But delay judgment’s hand.
Before that cosmic instant,
Infinite possibility.


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