The Paradiso

Morning tea in darkness

amid temporal fugues

I am now the waning crescent

Unfinished cigarettes burn

The ash drops; smoke rises

joining transmissions incomplete

Echoes of the Paradiso

weary of being hustled

and no longer wish to explain

to those who can hear

but refuse to listen

With dead souls that awake in the night

we leave the literal

I will now sleep in the day