Ode To Lucy

Much like a lucid ambient layer— I find myself floating down to the surface Into the stratosphere without a care— Projections about which I cannot repurpose: Into my own inevitabilities; Into the oxygen which I cannot breathe. I sing the shifting dirges of stars And the pragmatic proselytism Of the rapists, of reapers and preachers. But all of them so far have bled the same And so many more will scream out my name And none shall suffice as succinctly as The one who hath passed her judgment So fast. Posthaste I declare her dead.