The light is dying, the light is dying, take a picture, these dreams don't last long.
Scatter over the surface like droplets of water in every direction on their leashes of spiderweb snap snap snap the glittering remains glinting and snagging and distracting -
who were you again?
who was I?
Contrast of filth and beauty this stark division this mirror bright reflection the backyard of an old gas station with its tree full of broken dolls a head an arm cracked plastic ornamentation covered in dirt smudges dangling forgotten in the teetering light - can't I rest here for a while? Can't I rest here where the mouse without whiskers teeters over the ledge of day and night?
I have come to the end of memory and here the shards have snapped. The webs have broken and I have no more to offer but this shuddering cup of flesh, the holy chalice living and breathing its own torment through tiny gasping pores, cut gemstones for eyes, which are eyes, four eyes blinking in each direction and tearing and rolling in horror. It lies here forgotten in the dirt-packed lot of an old gas station which is a forgotten temple, yellow-brown stench of gasoline and diesel fuel and grease-stained griddles its only incense. The cup is filled with - what else? - tears and blood, tears and blood, salt and bittersweet. It quivers.
Oh, how it quivers.
It never asked for this.