No measure of truth could ever survive us,
the collective whites of our eyes, bloodshot,
so as to hide no lies behind.
Can there really be such thing as return?
Stumbling face first at the brick wall of eternity,
voices hoarse and gravelly,
we’re sprung from our eternal graves,
forced to sing with strangers,
no rhyme or reason among them.
Here for countless hours,
chewing the face off reality,
what would or could ever inspire us to action again?
Every level a common devil,
every evil a bumbling pinball,
another thread to cling to.
Sometimes no news is good news.
We part without word or trouble.
Not now though.
Not now.
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© G. P. Fiddament 2023
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