What was the prophecy of
a slow moving floating name?
To hang a spy from the beam?
Your face lits up.

The world was translating
the labate grief into small mirrors.
A seed explodes. A magnetized
book of conduct is slapped on your face.

And you start reading the script
in darkness in a beautiful retreat.

The approaching night engulfs
the moon. An anonymous fear
takes hold of this moment before
disappearing in an abyss.

You stoke a desire to collect
the immortal blues and headless clues
and we crawl on the sands of time
breaking the silence by our drones.