Open Light

The lion weeps beneath its den,
Opium trails smother his instinct to repent.
So, he chases his tale to Hades like Sistine vellum—
Flayed from memory, drawn as origin after fate.

No Cartesian matter resembles real bravery, yet
Forty-two creases on the blade of grass struggle
To sprinkle moonlight against this wasteland, where
He harvests poison fangs to scripture a spark,
Knives through the means-to-end paradox, and

Exhumes Sacellum from the blight.

The Barons pay in blood to play dead.

They scribble notes in pointillist gunshots,
Their white lab coats stained by trains and trolley problems
Ripping across history. For each year he toils away,
The antelopes drip of honey,
He needs to eat. He needs to fuck. He needs money.

The lion weeps beneath a misty sky.
Tungsten light sprawls sunset through his lungs,
When they pop,

Growth spills ballast like Seppuku—

Yields the Modern aesthetic—
To supply the supplier; reality’s a struggle to console him.
The heavens surround him,
His fight is never-ending, always-trending,
Immortalized, made-to-die

May the vultures pry the truth from me.