Stretch your arm out. Point your finger.
A to B. Nebula. There is no connection.
There are a thousand possible links.
We chew on ourselves. Our mouths are full
of flesh and dead words, cells sloughed off.
The newsday sets when we stop the noise,
screaming silenced beneath the fold.
Ourobouros. Nothing left. Seize the immediate.
Nothing left. There's a narrative. There is no connection.
There are a thousand possible links.
Each of us an empire, collapsing. The dust from
our abandoned cities clouds the sun.
Lay the blame: a new foundation.
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