Immolation: Words From the Second

Both selves have fallen, to the drink at last, A time to forge the third, and split anew. The first: Too funny, fleeting dreams have passed, Too light for purpose, upside-down yet true. Beloved by all but self—so lost, so sweet, Its hollow laughter echoed through the night. The second, cold with empire’s pallid beat, Kept the professors' chickens up in fright. The wine—transforming masks of elf and self, A cruel trick, as one dissolved to two. The world feigns wait, confused, upon a shelf, Not knowing which of these it wishes true. Yet seasons change, and with them comes the call: To walk as one, or split, to rise from fall.