The Melody of Malady

It is late. The vultures on the tower
Have rung the bells thrice,
Indicating our last hour:
The crescendo of demise.

Yes, this city, it is made of copper
And of glass — our New Atlantis;
Are we “self-aware supper”
To one giant praying mantis?

Are we destined to extinguish
Yet another solar system?
Then to sulk in choking anguish
With no music there to listen.

Maybe life is not a riddle,
But an egocentric joke;
Laughter is becoming lethal
If you’re diagnosed with stroke.

And the gorgeous Russian lady —
Oh, the finest of them all —
Thanks to her my mind is fading,
At her feet I humbly crawl…

When she leaves, I shout and shout
[As dementia quietly nears],
Sinking with my hands stretched out
Through the
of mirrors.



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