life has its requirements.
the eye would abandon
better,
divine illusions
all for the vivid reproduction of a
broken mongrel.
the fearful,
trembling shadow neither regular
nor reasonable.
the light that
corrupts morals
and lightens even the most
miserable a man.
granted,
such specimens are merely fairytales now,
righteous in their sleepless mockeries.
but press your eye to the sky
and you will see how they circle the sun,
spitting in the injuries of the dead and calling it love.