i don't think anything
i already know that i
don't trust, so there is no eye
that will always be a chore
all there is, is a lifting
simultaneous in rags do we drink it
removing from anything which is pure
and only itself joy
entombed in all that is seen
this tragedy, seemingly a betrayal
and a hope absurd, is all that is
and all that lifts itself into absolution
into ourselves we bring it
where all is memory
a ritual of prolonged extinction
where the only apostle is time
a wine which consumes,
intoxicates all senses
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