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Mendacities wear smiles made of porcelain with teeth more the stature of fangs which drip poison of an end to which I find myself entrusted; shattering is for the mirrors, and being is the soul’s likeness, subject to the inevitability of atrophy, as even the Universe’s own heart must cease its song, giving way to the passing of each beat, the dying of each note, and the falling from grace of a man’s honor.  Those feathers on the floor belonged to an angel once, and now they are but quills used to strike names from the Book of Life and rewrite them into the Book of the Dead, made to dance upon the leaf by the hands of he who would see himself departed before he finds the one thing that will bring him light; one atom seeking another, complete annihilation, oblivion, shards of reality loosed from the cosmos, dustings on the floor, snowflakes on the leaves, glints of history within each eye which chose to see, raindrops alighting the face, a butterfly flapping its wings and giving voice to chaos theories as the tsunami washes away all traces of me within myself and brings to the shore the you and the I.  Can you hear it?  Rising from this hell are the cries of mutiny, the roars made of words that proclaim “Never shall we give credence to the verdicts of the Fates, that we shall be islands in the vastness of the sea!”  And never shall we be alone in the face of voids.

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