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I Grasp the Smoke of a Decaying Past
I grasp the smoke of a decaying past,
And blacken my hands with the soot
Of a decaying present.
I punch the walls of tradition,
And bloody my hands with the sanguine
Of a crumbling future.
I bang my head on the tables of virtue,
And lighten my head with the hysteria
Of unanswerable questions.
I stroke the soft fur of beauty,
And prick my hand on the spiky coat
Of a petrifying splendor.
I touch the glow of a wish,
And burn my hands on the white-hot light bulb
Of past disappointments.
I open a scripture of augurs,
And leaf through the dusty pages
Of inane follies.
I touch the works of man,
And lament the miserable state
Of an irreversible condition.
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