We are the spin doctors

Of our own demise

We are but a singularity

A black rip

In the tissue of culture

We are the problem

Of our lack of solutions

And the world turns

The globe spins

The days drift

How many more hours

Does that exactly make?

Will there be enough time

For these slits

To depart my throat

In the aggressive silence

Where my blood sits

Though minds change

Species evolve

Others disappear

One singular consistency

Is the missing link

That is used

To keep me away

From getting to know you

Away from your eyes

Away from your mind

Away from your being

The blood from my vein

Away from feeling

A connection with the sane

Since the fault

Requires measures

I pray to my guilt

That it surrenders

And that one morning soon

My telephones will screech

With the sound of your voice

Telling me to go

Go to hell

If you want to

And join me here

In the burning comfort

Of regretful abundance

In the story of my love

So many odd years

Too late

This is but a key to the door

Of your dreams