For those who seek out ghosts
Or patterns in tea leaves,
The messages therein
Are never as they seem.
Those dim illuminations
Are few and far between.
Rarer still is a sense
Of what the fuck they mean.
I know what night brings,
I know the feeling,
Unflinching eyes fixed
On the ceiling.
What truth was ever snatched
Out of a crystal ball?
Well, I might wager
There has never been truth to be snatched at all.
Prayers not flung
Far enough to reach,
You see, fall back,
Line-up on the beach.
Drifting ashore
Like whales from the sea,
Spread-out, immobile,
And unable to breathe.
I know now
Such trivial words
Addressed to no one
Go forth unheard.
From the mouths of their speaker,
Go up to the atmosphere,
Hit their apex
And fall back down here.
See yonder boy
Hung from a tree,
Note his bloated, blue,
Broken body.
And when you see that boy,
Come shed a tear for me,
For that boy was the only thing
Of value to me.
The fruit is rotten,
And so it is said,
The child is dead
And soon forgotten.
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