When the stampedes came,
The tearing of thunder in the sky,
We ran like vultures and
flew like fools, crying
God help us from ourselves.

God helped himself and
Took from us those
We needed most,
floating down the river
while the Virgin named Mary
looked on as we passed,
puzzled by our muzzled
appearance and manner of speech.

Mannerisms and spelling bees
were only the beginning
of the cryptic massacre
we had on our hands,
We must have rode ten
Thousand miles before tripping
Over our own laces, time
Flying in our faces the whole way.

She looked like a serpent,
That lover who could not be
heard but was always seen.
The abstract always present but
never understood was a
tidal wave that tore
memory from mindset ‘till
I succeeded in no longer
being able to feel my face.

At last, the lost little loverboy
cried his last tune of the night
While I lay in the lamplight,
Absorbed in thoughts
no longer my own.
How long Will the dances last
After the inkwell runs dry?

Hyenas now hunted in our
Kindergardens and fiddlers
Sang songs of our triumphs,
One hundred years later we
Will be a pile of paper, the
Immortal mortality of thought
Hanging round our heads.
Comatose, in between commas
Our story reigns supreme.