Autotomy

It is not a fire
That falls off the sky

These are not comets
Under the lid of the eye

It is not a plague
That causes the rash

It is not contagious
In the lazaret for one

It is not a tragedy
If no one else saw the blood

It is not a disaster
If it blasts underground

It is not bad news
If it's not news at all

It is not an epitaph
As the breath's not the word

It is a shiny light of pleroma
Cutting its rays off
Banishing limbs
From the body
Into the exile

As limbs hold themselves tight while falling
Like it was a flesh of
A disintegrating
Petrified reptile

And as the wild drum of the pulse hits its last notes
You're closer to truth
It is not the world that is dying, it's you