Poetry

The system aborts. 
(Multiple organs failure) 
A deviant art 
of dying pompously. 
 
I wish, I was on a ─ 
moving floor, sailing 
without a walk, looking at 
the camouflaged ceiling. 
 
The shrill voice of a whistle─ 
blower, mimics an opera. 
I will snatch the words, 
raw, from your lips. 
 
It was here, in absence. 
Your poesy, matter-of-factly. 
Can you raise your voice 
against the fall of the thing.