The alley-stair unlit,
we're groping forward blindly,
we guess we do so kindly,
but are not sure of it.
We stumble across litter,
excretions from our soggy souls,
we scurry to our fuzzy goals
that distantly embitter.
The acres of our unused plans
are ploughed by dying horses,
dismayed we make new courses
that slip between our hands.
We scream our pain out loud
but cannot hear our voices,
those empty, strangled noises
that drift within the crowd.
We're trampled by a leaf,
it crashes on our heads,
the growing malaise spreads,
enveloping our grief.
We care no more nor mourn,
our ash-clothes are our dress-suits,
we dance to notes from death-flutes,
our tumbled gods reborn.