[Vesper X]

Quomodo cecidisti, fili aurorae?
Lamentemur.

Are we but shades
cathartically shed on
a camera obscura of sorts
capsized, washed out,
indistinct and begrimed
here we must grovel
with dignity under a
still peephole.

Are we mere statues
clustered in our glasshouses
- a box with no confession -
to kneel under a bronze law ?

But the bronze law melts down here
as the smoking gun inhales.
There's only ourselves
and the deaf walls moving in on us;

only ourselves and our questions snapped at
only ourselves, sécreted once they're secréted.

We are our own time-bomb flowers
as we're cluttering
a hothouse in a blind spot,
a mass grave
that's manured with scandal
in no sun.