Fog drifts hazy over the floating
signs of bent sheets of silver
collected by the acid dripping
gentiles who have
surrendered themselves
to positions
of prestige.
We prod our feet in rebellion
hoping the effort
will not
be in
vain.

I myself saunter into the game
fully expecting to be
compensated for
the brain cells
I have killed.

Screeching monks who are chanting
mournful melodies circle
the vital parts
of tasteless
druids eating
ice cream
from a dish.

I was the one who noticed
that the robes they
wore were black
as the symbols
fixed in
their eyes.

An easy target of caressing doom
which fluttered happily
upon the
precarious wires
stretched across
the messages
of illuminated words.

And in the middle of the night
the fog lifted
attitudes were resigned.
Figures of men who
stopped preying
on innocence were
in some sort of
tragic bliss.

Intricate designs of left
and right
became the emblems of
success.

I was the one who pulled
the plug
by pointing out
the number of times
the signs fell
to the ground.

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