At the vaulting dome, waves refused to travel unless on a few pieces of silver and a name.The flying metal bird will take two full hours. Angels in turquoise will feed appetites.
There is fear lurking in our minds behind bravado. We try to shut out noises of after-death and failure .We blame ourselves for all our stupid failures as though they really mattered to us and the dead.
We then read patterns in the grey whys of decay. As if the whole thing is a science of death and we have mastered the art of dying, of succumbing to the need to maintain transience.
We smugly wear the polyester film of transience about us.We read poetry in the trivial tragedies of their tatters.
The Morning is Just a Dream 