the sad ghosts of rites of passage gone, mocked,
their semblances by modern diseases pocked,
are some days still visible in the red of dawn.
it is a knowledge that is reserved to the few,
those making the effort to reassemble anew
in the creator.
a truth revealed for a few minutes,
such a truth as only the heavens
can contain it.
it is our duty to retrieve those fragments
floating above our godforsaken cities
soon to be under the void of the curved blade
Trembling I consider the bottomless deep,
a unstable rope stair to a ethic life, to be reaped
by embracing the aesthetics from our culture's cradle.
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