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Tilting at the Belltower

Robotic lies are spread across the room.
My modem howls in silent disbelief.
Machines are parrots. Maybe so are we,
as chafing bones are slouching to be born
in fire, as I draw my final breath
and sleep. Perchance to dream. Perchance to scream.

So gently whispered is this lifelong scream
while ghostly passing through my inner room.
A chalkboard’s nail. A raspy smoker’s breath.
A regent clad in finest disbelief.
A crawling insect hatches to get born,
and in the skylit evening, so were we.

In flame. In dust. In ashes. So were we.
One look, one tick, one sigh, one fleeting scream—
the ticket stamped as soon as we are born.
The marble also burns: “Make room! Make room!”
Destruction’s eve is met by disbelief.
You close your eyes and focus on your breath.

White clouds still mingle like a diamond breath.
As “I” and “You” are left of what was “we”.
Nostalgia’s pain gives way to disbelief.
Each bribe, each ad, each generated scream:
all fall away and leave a silent room.
Where time is spatial, yesterday is born.

When Monday: nothing. Tuesday: never born.
Pneuma. Spirit. Misted window breath.
It’s fields of gold, this claustrophobic room.
These prison walls befit the royal we.
I greet the morning with a prayer scream.
Days break and fall and fly in disbelief.

We fool ourselves with ostrich disbelief
and brood our heads as eggs yet to be born.
Can’t sing. Can’t dance. Aware enough to scream,
to rot, to burn, to learn to lose my breath,
They’ve got their hope, so shiny. They were we.
One life, one year, one second in this room.

Our disbelief is fueled by present breath.
The day is born yet casketbound are we,
as one long scream of nothingness leaves room: