In minds where we depend on each synapse
To bring us secret messages needed to survive
It is a lugubrious matter when the five
Senses begin to prevaricate—our organs flail,
each caps
The flow of animal spirits, leaving flaps
Of tissue in the hollow crevices: a hive
Of bees unguarded when the swarm has flown;
The shadows of the queen, her princes and dive
Into the darkness of their own sterility long
grown
Into a universe of silence, all semen sown.
Thus eternal turpitude,
relaxed and faded,
Like thoughtlessness when the idea of death has
jaded.
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