Conditioned to serendipity, all goes well until I’m faced with nothing to perceive.
Close enough to sit on my palm but fast enough to escape my closing grip,
I picture myself as a planet making a deal with the sun for a little bit of life;
heroin withdrawal would be a weekend at the spa I must be thinking.
In exchange for my cutaneous transformation under the sun and its fulfilling gaze,
I offer only the spectacle I grow to become for the sun to sack endlessly thus acknowledge:
my gameplan and my mission statement going forward.
Sentient that, as soon as the sun is dead and my own death clock begins to tick at last,
I will finally deteriorate from the absencential power of nourishing eyes upon me,
I knew back when the deal was started it was all for there and then;
upon very first sight of my umbra I manifested a strange taste in my mouth
that came to be paired with a feeling I can only describe as preemptive dread;
it would return to me from time to time but only at night to have me by way of the experience
enforce by my acknowledgment: the whole shebang’s mortality I suppose.
Today’s loss, despite an act of premeditation outises every combined gain of yesterday;
when the secret of harnessing beauty is a tragedy in bloom,
upon apocalypse for my world of eyes and ears in darkness, they must had thought as one:
it’s not worth it to witness ephemeral grace when in its void epitomises the worst thing ever.
My crown animal was only one million years away from the technology to escape their end:
factoid of the day. But back to grace on my zombie planet as in dead but still spinning:
I would trade it all back just to not have had to endure the void from it fleeting.