Dear Reader,
We write for our selves to seek nexus.

Where some crave eternity,
Deathless eternities
Wrapped in blank aha moments,
They confine themselves
To eternal figure-eight skating
Facing inevitable collision by repetition
Of interminable ad infinitums,
Endless tasteless meals,
Cloudless days nesting in a million sunny days,
Life rendered meaningless.

When in fact
Counting essential seconds,
Meaty intervals of tick-tocking clocks
That will eventually strike twelve
A last time.
Within those hour-borders
Joyful music peals
To rouse emotions.

In the background, hear it!
Shrilly faked orgasmic songs
Set adrift on an endless sea.

Or brief-life candles,
Grasping for interludes of conscious uncoveries
Always on the cusp of salvation.

Sincerely,
A Strutting Poor Player