They knew you as a symptom of decay,
A distension in the frame of your mind,
Entranced, perhaps too long in the deep,
Inventing your space and your time,
Pushing the line, planning an escape.
Without warning, unshackled, unmasked,
You stole a day from the sun, unholy monk,
And burned it to ashes to dust
to a river of ether,
Reduction of matter to form,
A habit of thinking
Forever stirring
Like whispers in the wind.
They sent an ambassador in white
Ashes in his jargon
Two misplaced eyeballs
Rolling like pebbles
On his wooden tongue;
They had you undone
And stuffed with straw
And stuck in the mud
Without warning, without form,
Like the silence on your mouthless face,
Permanently impressed on the frame of the stars.
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