Anthem of Dying Days

Out of the window, out of the vision of tomorrow.
Her smiles, grieving through my morning sorrow.
Blurred out paintings waiting to be borrowed, to be stolen from my rectum, and glow.

(Angels are still singing the anthem, endlessly)

Two steps away from the flowing hair, my last despair.
She might not be that fair as she climbed up the sculpted stair.
Swirling brushes in bare, choking in the midnight air.

(Angels are still whispering the hymn, painfully)

He is the white feather in the clouds, falling down like buds.
This is the end, son. Tear off your studs.
The wind is too loud, release me from the crowd.

(Angels are wiping the tears, eternally)



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Note: inspired by a short story snippet by Kak Joe.