the air is old
and tired
it protests
another breath

I concede
and agree
not to breathe
for a while

the respite
from this
lasting fight
is pleasing

it is not easy
to keep moving
flowing like
those living

so difficult
to imitate them

when

static memory
falls through
the air as
weary ash




the constancy
of unlife
between shades
of indistinct grey

false life
goes on
this is
almost forever

a tiny shadow
in the horizon
that which flies beyond
this) seems untouchable

unimaginable






(the world does
not endure
disassociation
demands your soul
to dance
a puppet's life
to live)





like this
the emperor's clockwork
nightingale
in gilded wickercages
pretends to breath again
and the world moves on.

this is why I
dwell so often
in the false unlife
of shadowed dreams

in the grasp of
the fatal surreal

it is more comforting than
the false life you
would live

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