There are years
that have made touch
            sediment
on our skins

we are still waiting
for childhood

one that makes toys of truth
vast rivers of ignorance

bird of drunk chance
in the azure of unknown

we are now rock hard dead lives
from our cavernous eyes:
                outside the fleeting world of fantasy

perplexing games naturally there –
we, nevertheless, have chosen dripstone repose

a slow stagnation
the light disappears
and I sense

we were shadows in the sun.

Nihilistic Poetry